


what if we rewrite the stars?

by Resacon1990



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, DCEU, DCU, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce needs to get a grip with his damn pining, Canon Compliant, DCU Big Bang, DCU Big Bang 2019, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Look there's a lot of angst, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20836898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resacon1990/pseuds/Resacon1990
Summary: They only just brush fingertips though, glove against skin before he feelsit. A deep tug in his core. It’s not painful, just deeply uncomfortable, and his eyes go wide as Clark calls out his name again and starts to surge forward.It doesn’t matter though as Bruce sees Clark’s terrified face before it all goes black.Or, Bruce doesn’t believe in time travel, until it happens to him.





	what if we rewrite the stars?

_ _

_No one can rewrite the stars_  
_How can you say you'll be mine?_  
_Everything keeps us apart_  
_And I'm not the one you were meant to find_

...

Bruce doesn’t believe in time travel.

It’s not that he hasn’t considered it. Of course, he has. Everyone has at some point or rather in their lifetime, it’s not that uncommon a thought. Bruce was typical with his own thoughts. Could he go back to the day and save his parents? Could he stop Joe Chill from putting a bullet through both of them? Could he staunch the flow of blood until paramedics arrived instead of not knowing what to do? _Could_ he?

But that’s it. Bruce has never been generous enough to think about stopping the sinking of the Titanic or preventing the World Wars. It’s not selfishness. Even if he hadn’t seen numerous media or read books that show how changing the past could change the future, and not always for the better, it’s just common sense. If he ever did go back and save his parents, he wouldn’t be the man he is today.

Maybe that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing?

The point is, though, that Bruce has _never_ believed in time travel or particularly thought it would ever be some sort of issue that would pop up in his life. After all, it doesn’t even _exist_ as far as he’s concerned, the physics and laws of human nature can’t allow it, but, like a lot of things that he’s never believed in, he’s completely wrong.

Right now, as Lex Luthor levels a rather large and odd rifle-shaped weapon in Bruce’s face, the only real thought he has is how _small_ the machine is. He thought it would’ve been bigger when he’d seen it briefly mentioned in the files he’d stolen from Luthor years ago which, at the time, he’d dismissed as wishful thinking. It’s incredible though that Luthor has made something _that_ dramatic and powerful into something so small and, frankly, it's a huge achievement and were the weapon not currently almost stabbing Bruce in the eye then he would probably be applauding Luthor for his technological discovery.

But alas, now isn’t the time. As a team, they’ve only been together for just over a year and they _still_ don’t know the best way to work as a cohesive unit. It’s resulted in Clark out of commission somewhere back down the hallway of Luthor’s hideout, Arthur with him trying to pull the shard of kryptonite out of his shoulder with some glowing orb of Atlantean technology, Cyborg outside holding the small army of Luthor’s droids at bay with his own fleet of robots, and Diana glaring at Luthor from where she’s sprawled to the side of the room, wrapped in her own lasso that was pilfered from her by one of Luthor’s minions. Barry, on the other hand, is standing on the other side of Luthor completely frozen as his eyes flit between the weapon in Luthor’s hand and Bruce’s face.

“Is that…?” Barry starts to murmur, but he trails off as a manic smile crosses Luthor’s face and he pushes the muzzle of the weapon closer so it nearly touches Bruce’s nose.

“Yes,” Luthor says. “It’s exactly what you think it is.”

Bruce doesn’t know what to do. He won’t admit it out loud though, but he genuinely hasn’t a damn clue. Luthor’s finger looks particularly twitchy where it sits on the weapon's trigger. Any move and Bruce could be staring down the barrel of being shot back to some point in the past _or_ maybe propelled into the future, and neither is exactly tempting.

“Luthor-” Bruce starts to say, but a wild look appears in Luthor’s eyes as his hand trembles and the weapon just _slightly_ brushes the tip of Bruce’s nose.

“Don’t try to placate me, Wayne,” he sneers. He steps forward and presses the muzzle right against the cowl covering Bruce’s forehead, hard enough that he can feel the uncomfortable feeling of leather cutting into his skin. “Spare me the snivelling. I didn’t wake up wanting to hear that.”

Bruce swallows thickly but doesn’t say a word. They’d been here just to raid Luthor’s camp to filch whatever dangerous goods they could get their hands on, _especially_ considering the rumours of his recent unethical experiments. Currently, that plan is not going the way it’s meant to be and, while Bruce is normally quick to think on his feet, this entire situation isn’t one he’d ever planned for in any circumstances. All thoughts have evaporated in his mind as he stares down the barrel of an utter disaster.

“What do you want?” Barry manages to ask. Bruce nearly hits him to keep quiet, but moving even an inch will probably cause Luthor’s twitchy finger to fire.

He does _not_ want that.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” Luthor counter-asks in response. He doesn’t take his eyes off Bruce, even as he speaks to Barry. “I haven’t done anything. I’ve had no contact with any of you for months. I’ve not caused any ruckus since my prison release-”

“You _destroyed_ Gotham Harbour!” Diana yells out, and Bruce nearly swears. He knows the lasso is compelling and Diana has done well to stay quiet for this long considering the pain she must be in, but the way Luthor’s right eye spasms are not at _all_ reassuring.

“In my defence,” Luthor roars at her, his voice rising to a cringing level, “Aquaman should’ve kept his damn nose out of my business!”

“You were attacking The Trench!”

“I needed their hides,” Luthor spits. “It was for an _experiment_. They’re barely sentient creatures. They wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

“You’re a psychopath, Luthor,” Diana snarls, and Bruce is nearly ready to bloody well beg her to shut up as he starts to hear the weapon whirring when Luthor’s finger starts to tighten on the trigger. Although, he can see that Luthor’s eyes are starting to flitter towards Diana as she yells at him. If he can just lose his attention on Bruce for _one_ moment then maybe Bruce can get the upper hand.

“I’m a genius,” Luthor snaps, and Diana scoffs loudly. “I’m more intelligent than your entire team combined. You all lack _vision_.”

“We have sanity on our sides though,” Barry chimes in haughtily and _that_ seems to be the deciding factor as Luthor’s eyes flicker away for just the moment that Bruce needs and he seizes his opportunity.

He drops quickly into a haphazard crouch, catching himself before he hits the ground. He throws his leg out when he’s balanced with the help of his hands and slams the heel of his foot into one of Luthor’s ankles with as much force as possible. It sends Luthor falling with a cry, crashing to the ground in a heap as Barry steps back before he disappears with a loud lightning crack. He reappears beside Diana, tugging at the lasso around her, and Bruce barely gives them a second glance before he’s reaching for the time weapon clasped in Luthor’s hand.

Luthor hasn’t gone down hard enough though as his grip tightens around the handle of the weapon. Bruce is strong as he yanks at the weapon from Luthor hands, but Luthor is _manic_ as he flings himself at Bruce with a sharp cry. He doesn’t even have time to throw the weapon away before Luthor is on top of him and _scratching_ at the cowl on his head.

He has to let go of the weapon, it clattering to the side as he reaches up to grab Luthor’s furious wrists. It’s not enough though as his cowl is ripped off his head and Luthor’s fingernails come dangerously close to ripping his skin.

A pair of hands come out of nowhere though. Suddenly, Luthor is being thrown across the room, slamming into the wall with a thud, and a panting Clark appears overtop of Bruce. There’s no hesitation as Clark grips Bruce’s arm and hauls him to his feet.

“You alright?” Clark asks, breathless with a line of sweat beading at his hairline. Bruce spots the glowing traces of kryptonite still on his shoulder and he reaches up to try and brush away what is still there.

“Your shoulder,” Bruce mutters as Clark winces at his touch. Concern surges through him and he grips Clark’s upper arm tightly. “Clark, you can’t fight in this state.”

Clark’s hand catches Bruce’s and pulls it away. “It’s fine,” he says with a weak smile. “We just need to get this finished and you can patch me back up at the mansion.” He grunts and his face spasms, probably from a burst of pain, and his hand tightens painfully around Bruce’s. It sends a flutter through Bruce’s chest but he brutally ignores it as Clark winces again and lets out a pained gasp. “Although,” he admits begrudgingly, “maybe sooner rather than later.”

Bruce shakes his head in disbelief as Clark gives him a half-smile, and he turns back around to find his cowl and the time weapon. The cowl is easy enough, sitting right at his feet, but he frowns when he realises that the weapon is nowhere to be found.

His stomach drops in dread as he hears Luthor’s laugh through the room, and he slowly looks over to see Luthor sitting against the wall, watching them with a small trail of blood running from a large cut in his forehead and a twisted look warping his face as he slowly raises the time weapon their way.

He doesn’t say a word as Bruce sees him pull the trigger, and there’s a chorus of startled cries through the room as a fast green beam bursts from the pointed muzzle. It heads straight towards them, and Bruce doesn’t think once before he turns and slams a shoulder into Clark, sending him sprawling to the floor just as the beam hits exactly where Clark had been standing.

Now where Bruce _is_ standing.

The beam touches his chest and Bruce winces as he prepares for some kind of pain or uneasiness, but he’s surprised when nothing of the sort happens. He stands still for a moment and wonders if something has gone wrong as he touches his chest with his gloved hands only to come up short when nothing feels different.

He glances over to see Luthor watching him still with an _excited_ expression, and he knows it must’ve worked. He turns to look down at Clark, who looks pale and unbelieving, and wonders how long it’s going to take for the weapon to enact.

“Bruce…” Clark calls, reaching up with a hand, and Bruce stares at it for a long moment before he too starts to extend his arm out to Clark.

They only just brush fingertips though, glove against skin before he feels _it_. A deep tug in his core. It’s not painful, just deeply uncomfortable, and his eyes go wide as Clark calls out his name again and starts to surge forward.

It doesn’t matter though as Bruce sees Clark’s terrified face before it all goes black.

…

The first thing that Bruce notices, is how _cold_ it is.

He opens his eyes to see that he’s standing on a dirt path that’s barely noticeable through all the snow around him. The air is thin and his lungs protest slightly as he tries to breathe in deeply so he must be somewhere with a high altitude, probably a mountain if the slope of the ground around him is anything else to go by. Admittedly, it’s a setback. Had he been in some urban area he could at least figure out what time period he’s in by the buildings and people around him.

But there’s nothing else around besides snow and trees, and he drops his attention to himself. He _feels_ younger. His back isn’t aching from age, his eyes are sharper than they have been for a long time, and there’s no slight ringing in his left ear. _That_ makes him frown. He hadn’t even realised there _had_ been ringing, but the lack of it is quite distinctive.

He holds up his hands. There are fewer scars than normal running all over them, the backs of his hands nearly completely smooth, so he’s obviously quite young. There’s only one long defining one curling around his hand from the back to just over his palm, ending against his thenar crease or ‘life line’. He got that deep scar when he was first developing the batarangs and one slipped and sliced his hand down to the tendon. Alfred had been _furious_ with him for weeks. At least it lets him know that he’s definitely Batman age, probably roughly towards the beginning. He rolls his shoulders and they both feel fine, there’s not any tug of pain from his old left shoulder wound, credit to the Joker and a nasty crowbar for that one, so he must be earlier than his mid-thirties.

His hair is the same length as always and he’s got his trademark stubble. There are no hints there. A quick look at his clothes shows he’s wearing a plain white suit shirt and black suit pants, clearly not helping against the chill of the air, but that doesn’t help any either. He’s _always_ wearing the same attire.

But the tie he’s loosely wearing catches his eye. He lifts it to make sure he’s correct, but one look at the blue and silver stripes confirms it. He’s currently at some point around mid-nineteen-ninety nine. Twenty years in the past. The tie was his father’s that Alfred gave him on his twenty-seventh birthday of ninety-nine, back in the February, and he accidentally burnt it on a drunken bender at Christmas later that same year.

He drops the tie and glances around again. There’s still nothing around him and the snow is starting to soak through his dress shoes. It really is freezing, and he can feel his nose starting to lose feeling in the tip. He reaches up to unroll his sleeves down his arms and pulls the tie off to wrap around his fingers. It’s the best he can do to keep them warm as he starts to trudge up the small incline he’s on, following the path upwards. If there’s a path, there must be some sort of civilisation at the end of it, and it looks like the trees clear further up the way. He places his bets that there will be something or maybe someone up there.

It’s only after a few minutes of dreaded walking when he hears footsteps crunching in the snow behind him. It surprises him. There was nothing in sight only a moment ago, and he turns around when he hears the footsteps falter.

Bruce stumbles to a halt himself as he comes face to face with Clark Kent.

He’s different, obviously so. He’s fresh-faced and young as he stares at Bruce with wide eyes. Bruce does a quick calculation, knowing Clark’s birthday is ten days _after_ Bruce’s and there’s an eight-year gap between them, so he figures that Clark would be about nineteen. He’s ladened down with a backpack filled with firewood, and the look on his face is a mixture of surprise and utter confusion.

“Ah, hello?” Clark says, blinking blankly at Bruce. His eyes trail over Bruce quickly, obviously taking note of how underdressed Bruce is, and he frowns. “What are you doing out here?”

Bruce is about to snap back with a counter-question, blaming the cold on making him irritated, but he shoves that response down. Instead, he gives Clark an awkward smile. “Would it make sense if I said I have no idea?” he answers, and Clark’s eyebrows go up.

“You… don’t know?” he repeats, sounding more than disbelieving. “You don’t know why you’re out here.”

“No,” Bruce confirms. He doesn’t offer any other explanation.

Clark stares at him for a bit longer before he suddenly jumps. Bruce knows it’s because his teeth have started to chatter at an alarming loud rate for someone with superhearing, but he’s thankful that _that_ has seemed to shake Clark out of his stupor.

“I’ve heard weirder things,” Clark mutters as he drops his backpack and starts to shrug off the hideous plaid coat he’s wearing. Bruce recognises it actually, the red monstrosity with the sheepskin collar that Clark always wears back in the present, and he’s surprised that Clark’s clearly had it for a bloody long time. “Here,” he adds, handing it out to Bruce, and Bruce takes it with frigid fingers.

It’s deliciously warm, and Bruce pulls it on and wraps it as tightly as he can around himself before he pushes his frozen nose into the heat of the collar for a just a moment. It takes the edge off, and when he glances up to see Clark watching him with a curious gaze, Bruce clears his throat and gives him a tight grimace.

“Thank you,” he says honestly, and Clark just nods. He’s clearly not bothered by the cold where he stands in his t-shirt, and Bruce thinks that he should probably make mention that Clark could freeze just so he doesn’t think anything is off, but he’s being brutally selfish right now as he just leaves it at a thank you.

Clark pauses briefly before looks away from Bruce and he reaches back for his backpack. “Got a name, stranger?” he asks as he shoulders the pack again.

Bruce hesitates for too long a moment. He doesn’t know what to say. Should he give a fake name? What if this meeting affects what happens in the future? If Bruce could avoid the events where they fought each other then that would be great, but it was also incredibly necessary for the development of their team as it stands now. _Everything_ happens for a reason.

He doesn’t know how Luthor’s time travel works. He can’t guarantee this isn’t like one of those cliche eighties films where his actions affect or change the future, or if it’s like those other newer films where the future is permanent and nothing he does will change it.

In any case, he waits too long to finally blurt out, “Bruce.”

Clark pauses for a moment, and Bruce recognises the look on his face as the one he uses when he’s listening for a lie.

“Bruce, huh?” he muses after a beat. “Do you have a last name? Or you’re not sure of that either?”

Bruce can’t help but let out a startled laugh. He contemplates using his mother’s maiden name, just to keep his identity quiet, but there’s no point. Clark will just pick up on the lie. “Bruce Wayne,” he introduces himself, and he feels dread when he sees a sudden flash of recognition go off in Clark’s eyes.

“Like the guy from Gotham?” Clark demands. His eyes are wide as he shakes his head. “You can’t be him.”

Bruce doesn’t answer. Just extends one of his arms as a show of, well, here he is and he _is_ Bruce Wayne, and Clark just lets out a low whistle.

“Yikes,” he winces. “I know I said that weirder things have happened, but this is pretty weird.” He shakes his head again before he reaches out to Bruce, offering his hand. “I’m Clark Kent.”

His hand is pleasantly warm, and Bruce nearly doesn’t let go. Clark drops his hand though as soon as he’s given Bruce a brisk shake and he starts forward until he’s at Bruce’s side.

“You’re looking more and more like a popsicle, Bruce,” he points out with an easy smile. “I have a warm cabin up the way if you’re interested?”

Bruce _definitely_ is, and he nods his head as he wraps his arms back around himself to try to close off from the brisk wind finding all the gaps in the jacket. Clark gestures for Bruce to fall in beside him, and he does so without complaint.

They don’t speak much as they walk. Bruce focuses more on being able to breathe in the thin air as they climb the hill and wonders if he can keep his feet from freezing off with sheer will. He’s not too sure what the cure for frostbite is besides amputation but, despite his worries, when Clark asks if he’s okay every now and again, Bruce just grunts in response.

It doesn’t take them long until they climb over a final ridge and Bruce spots a small gathering of wooden cabins up ahead. There are a few people milling about amongst them, some carrying large stacks of logs between them, and Bruce frowns. It obviously a small community of some sorts, but he can’t quite figure out why _anyone_ would want to live up this high let alone in this much snow.

“This is the halfway point for dogsledding,” Clark starts explaining, obviously having spotted Bruce’s frown. “They suffered an avalanche last year and are still rebuilding.” Bruce glances over to see Clark has a grim look on his face. “I bumped into a few of them in town the other month and I’ve been trying to help as much as I can. The conditions in Denali are awful though, which makes it slow work.”

Denali. So Bruce is in _Alaska_? That confuses the hell out of him. Sure, somewhere in America would’ve made sense, but Luthor sending him to _Alaska_ is just baffling.

He doesn’t reply. Even his tongue feels frozen solid at this point, and Clark spares him a worried look before he reaches out and places a steady hand on Bruce’s upper back.

“I’m just on the outskirts here,” he continues as he gently pushes Bruce forward towards a small wooden cabin just up ahead. The extra support is helpful, it gives Bruce just that little boost to get him over the last few metres, and when he finally steps off the snow-covered ground onto the tiny front porch of the cabin, he could nearly cry in relief.

Clark drops the back-pack of firewood onto the porch as he reaches to open the door, not taking his hand off Bruce’s back until he’s been guided inside and Clark lets him go to fish around for the light switch.

It’s just as tiny on the inside as on the outside, Bruce realises when the dim lights flicker on. He’s standing in a small u-shaped kitchenette, a counter and stove on his right, counters and a small fridge on the right wall, and two counters protrude out in front of him to separate it from the small living room where there’s a large bookcase on the right wall, a two-seater sofa pressed against the left, and a fireplace on the back wall. There’s not much else for decoration besides a small coffee table and some floor cushions stacked in the corner.

Quaint, is how Bruce would describe it, and thankfully it’s _warmer_ than it is outside.

“I’ll get you something to change into,” Clark says as he steps around Bruce and heads towards the small little hall off to the side. It’s barely three feet long, but it’s enough for the doorway on the right of it that leads behind the sofa, and a doorway at the end. Clark disappears to the right, and Bruce catches a glimpse of a bedroom before Clark is back with a stack of clothes in his hands.

Clark holds out his other hand and gives Bruce a pointed look. He gets the hint and Bruce shrugs off the warm jacket to hand over to him, trying and failing to hold back his chattering teeth as soon as the cold air hits his skin through his thin shirt. Clark looks a little pained, undoubtedly at the grating noise of Bruce’s teeth, but he passes over the bundle of clothes and gestures behind him.

“Bathroom is at the end there,” he points out. “There’s no bath, but there is a shower if you want one. Towels are in the cupboard. Just pop your clothes in the hanger in the bedroom and I’ll clean them later.” He gives Bruce a quick once over. “Hungry?”

Bruce doesn’t want to feel like he’s leeching, but he does give a small nod. His stomach rumbles at the perfect time, not loud, but loud enough for Clark’s hearing to pick up as his eyes dart to Bruce’s stomach and he smiles.

“I’ll get you something,” he tells Bruce before he starts to usher him towards the little hall. “Make yourself at home, Bruce.”

“Thank you,” Bruce manages to say through his jittering teeth, and Clark gives him an easy smile before Bruce heads into the bathroom.

It’s just as small as the rest of the place. Shower crammed into one corner with the sink opposite it and the toilet beside the sink. Bruce pauses for just a moment before he drops the bundle of clothing on top of the toilet lid and starts to shuck off his frigid clothes. The air against his cold skin is bracing and nearly painfully cold, and he quickly shoves on the pants and cotton trousers that Clark has provided.

By the time he’s sliding the long-sleeved shirt on over a singlet, he’s thinking less about the cold and more about his situation. This is a mess, he thinks. Being sent back in time is one thing, but being sent back in time and coming across a younger Clark is something that Bruce _never_ thought would happen, especially when he doesn’t know how this encounter might affect the future.

He tries to wrack his brain for some answers as he tugs another shirt over the others, piling on the layers. Thankfully, once they’d heard that Luthor had a time travel device, Barry had gone mental with all the pop culture references he could find to do with time travel _and_ all the physics and theories behind them. Bruce had only really listened on the way to Luthor’s lab, having ignored the majority of Barry’s lessons because time travel didn’t _exist_ back then, but he’s managed to retain some bits of knowledge.

Of all the timelines that could exist, there’s fixed, dynamic, and multiverse. Bruce is almost positive that the multiverse theory is the one that’s most commonly believed by theorists. He wonders if that’s the case here, that he’s opened up an alternative timeline where he meets Clark in the past, but something about that is just not right. Bruce doesn’t think Luthor would create a weapon that would open up multiple alternative timelines. There’s no _obvious_ way that Luthor would benefit from that.

So he has to think about how this would benefit Luthor. Dynamic time travel doesn’t make sense either. It creates a paradox, something that Luthor would abhor. Maybe it’s fixed? It’s the only option that Bruce has left out of the three. Whatever he does right now won’t affect the future he left. That theory has always been the one that’s given Bruce the largest headache. How can something he does _now_ not affect something in the future? It would make sense for Luthor to use that to his advantage though. No matter what he does in the past, such as steal kryptonite as he has done, it won’t _change_ anything in the future.

But what’s the point of having a time weapon if it doesn’t change the future? Of course, there’s also the added feature that clearly one can’t bring something back with them. If that were the case, Bruce wouldn’t be standing in Clark Kent’s bathroom in borrowed clothes and a borrowed body.

Maybe that’s it, he suddenly realises. It’s not a fixed timeline, not really. A fixed timeline means that no matter _what_ you do, it can’t change the future. The future is inevitable. But Luthor is smart. Maybe this could be a bastardised version of the timelines where if Luthor goes back into the past and changes it, it does affect the future?

So when Luthor would come back from the past, the new memories and events he’s created from a certain time follow him back. It means he could do what he wants to benefit himself in the future. Move kryptonite here, steal secrets there, and when he gets back he has the knowledge of where they are. It makes _sense_.

But then how does it affect the people around them when they travel back in time? Maybe, his time he’s spending with past-Clark will be remembered by Clark the moment that Bruce steps foot back into the future, or maybe they’re appearing in Clark’s memories each moment they’re happening here in the past? Perhaps Clark is just remembering meeting Bruce on the slopes of the Denali in the present? What kind of effect must that have on his brain though?

As it stands right now though, neither Clark or Bruce have memories of events outside of what has actually happened before Bruce was sent back in time. Of that, he’s positive. Nowhere in his memories is there anything about him in Denali in nineteen ninety-nine. Hell, he’s never been to Denali _period._ He vaguely remembers he was at a large party and drunk out of his mind at this current date in the past, not cavorting about around here, and, no doubt, Clark doesn’t have the memory of a young Bruce Wayne literally _appearing_ in front of him out here in the middle of nowhere.

If he did, he would’ve said something to Bruce in their future. Clark isn’t that good at hiding secrets. Never has been.

He lets out a huff of frustration as he reaches for the next article of clothing, a thick woollen sweater. He can think all he likes and theorises until he’s blue in the face but in the end, it’s only _Luthor_ who knows how this bloody weapon works.

Bruce tugs the too big sweater over his head and appreciates the fuzzy warmth for a moment. It really is bloody freezing up here. Future him isn’t as sensitive to the cold as young him, but that’s because future him has trained his body to sustain weather elements, something that he didn’t start to look into until _after_ he’d been Batman for a good ten years. Young him isn’t soft by any means, not since at this age Bruce has been Batman for two years, but he is self-destructive in his vigilante life _and_ private life.

He glances up at the small mirror hanging over the sink. He’d have thought that young him would’ve looked a lot better than future him, but he’s sorely mistaken. Sure, he’s muscular and fit, but there are large bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep, his cheeks look almost permanently flushed from his alcohol dependency, he’s sallow and unhealthily _thin_ despite the muscles, and he reaches up to rub his hands through his hair, only for some brittle strands to fall out.

He remembers being like this, but only vaguely. He mainly remembers the look on Alfred’s face every time that Bruce had looked at him. Horrified, worried, distraught. Alfred had promised to look after Bruce after his parents died, and _this_ was how Bruce repaid him. Working himself to the bone as both Bruce Wayne and Batman, self-destructing every chance he got, and finding solace in the bottom of a damn bottle every night.

He’d just wanted to check out of reality for a while after each day. Starting as Batman hadn’t been easy, it won’t get easy for years yet, and even _now_, Bruce would hesitate to say it’s a job that doesn’t have _consequences_. But mixing that with the regular life of Bruce Wayne? The expectations? The rules? The raised eyebrows and whisperings murmured as he hid behind dazzling smiles and feigned ignorance?

It’s a bracing reality check, and Bruce grits his teeth as he pushes away from the sink to fold up his shed shirt, trousers, and socks. The latter is almost completely sodden, and he sighs as they leave brownish wet patches on his white shirt. Alfred would have a _fit _if he saw the state they were in.

But Alfred’s not here. A young Clark is, and Bruce straightens his shoulders before he finally exits the bathroom to cross into the bedroom, places his clothes on top of the small laundry basket, and makes his way back out into the living area.

Clark has moved to the kitchen, the whistling kettle steaming away on top of the stove behind him with two mismatched mugs set out on the countertop. Clark glances up briefly from where he leans in the corner of the counters to see Bruce before he waves at the pile of bread in beside him.

“Hope you like peanut butter,” he calls cheerfully. “We haven’t got much up this way since rations are a bit short in winter, but I’ll go out later and see what they’re serving for dinner up at the hall. Probably pasta.” He snorts and shakes his head. “It’s always pasta.”

Bruce feels incredibly awkward as he hovers in front of the sofa, not wanting to sit but his legs are starting to ache from the cold and strenuous use. “Thank you,” he settles on saying, and Clark waves a knife his way.

“Sit down,” Clark orders, but he gives Bruce a small smile to counter his tone. “You look like you’re about to drop. All those muscles but not much stamina?”

“Not everyone can be superhuman,” Bruce mutters as he drops onto the cushions, and he freezes at his own words when he realises once _again_ that Clark has superhuman hearing. He holds his breath as he looks up slightly, just to see that Clark is staring at him with a narrowed gaze.

There’s a heavy silence as they watch each other before Clark puts the knife down slowly and takes a few steps forward. Bruce braces himself, he doesn’t know how _this_ Clark is going to react, and he closes his hands into tight fists as he sees Clark’s eyes are starting to glow.

With a sharp noise, Clark fires his laser vision, and Bruce flinches _only_ at the heat of the rays shoot right past him as they _crack_ into the logs of wood in the small fireplace on his left. Immediately, the logs burst into flame and the sudden roar of the fire is more than just pleasant as Bruce nearly moves from his seat to curl into the heat.

Clark still doesn’t say a word though, and Bruce isn’t willing to break the silence, but he does turn back to the kitchen. Bruce listens to the sound of the toaster popping, a knife cutting and scraping against the toast, and the clinging of a teaspoon in a mug as he waits with bated breath. It feels like aeons go by as he waits until finally Clark piles up the toast on a plate and carries both mugs over to the couch.

Bruce obediently shuffles over when Clark gives him a pointed look, something he’s not complaining about as he moves closer to the fire, and he cautiously accepts the plate of toast and mug of tea when Clark hands it to him before Clark settles into the other side of the couch.

“So,” Clark finally muses, and Bruce’s grip is almost painful around the handle of his mug. “When are you from?”

Bruce opens his mouth, closes it, puts the toast on the small coffee table in front of them and grips his mug with both hands. “Gotham-” he starts to explain, but Clark cuts him off with a sharp noise.

“Not _where_, Bruce,” he scolds. “_When_. _When_ are you from?”

Bruce hesitates. He doesn’t want to say, but the look on Clark’s face is offering no other alternative. For such a young man, he’s got a lot of gumption, and Bruce sighs as he looks at the worn green rug covering the hardwood floor.

“Two thousand and nineteen,” he murmurs quietly. He pauses before he glances up to see the shock on Clark’s face. “You believe in time travel?”

Clark quickly schools his face into something a little more neutral before shrugs. “I don’t think it’s impossible,” he answers. He gestures at his eyes. “I mean, I’ve got laser _and_ x-ray vision, so it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen.”

Bruce, surprisingly, laughs. It seems to shock Clark too as his face cracks out into a pleased smile. It’s not that it’s funny, it’s more that this is _completely_ surreal. Bruce never thought he’d end up back in time and accompanied by a younger Clark Kent. It’s never even crossed his mind.

He takes a sip of his tea and relishes in the warmth it provides. He’s still so cold and he thinks he probably should’ve taken Clark up on the offer of a shower to heat him through. He tugs the ends of his sleeves over his chilled fingers and tries to keep the heat of the mug trapped between the fabric and the ceramic. The fire is helping him warm along too, but the cabin is still overall chilly.

“Here,” Clark suddenly says, and Bruce glances over to see him pulling a large knitted blanket off the back of the sofa. It’s a hideous mix of muted rainbow colours, but it looks well-loved and worn, and Bruce lets Clark drape it around his shoulders. “My mother knitted it for me before I left home. Not that it matters. I’m not exactly partial to the cold.” He pauses before he pats Bruce’s arm. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

Bruce doesn’t respond. He busies himself with wrapping the blanket around himself a little cosier and drinks his tea. He doesn’t quite know what he should be saying or doing. Sure, he’s figured out a vague theory on how this time travel works in general, but he doesn’t know if he should be revealing anything. If he says anything to Clark that he could put into action between now and the future, will he do it? Will _that _influence future events? Or does this work into Bruce’s theory that future Clark will get this memory suddenly and it hasn’t affected anything at all? Just replaced a short space in time?

He doesn’t know, and it’s starting to make his head hurt to think about it too much.

“So,” Clark starts up again when it’s obvious Bruce isn’t going to reply. “You know me in the future then?” Bruce hesitantly nods, and Clark leans forward. “What am I like?”

Bruce opens and closes his mouth in quick succession as he looks at this young Clark. He thinks of Clark back home, _his_ Clark. The apple-pie kind of guy with the big smile and the easiness that only comes from years of self-finding. The man with more courage than Bruce could ever muster, more bravery than Bruce has ever _seen_, the man with the biggest damn heart that could ever be found.

But then he looks at this Clark and he sees someone who’s lost, who has the world on his shoulders. Bruce knows he would’ve only just lost his father recently in the tornado, and it shows in the dullness of his eyes and the slump in his posture. He’s sad and lonely but there’s a crack of light in his smile and Bruce doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re a good man, Clark,” Bruce settles on. Clark blinks at him a bit blankly until Bruce awkwardly covers Clark’s hand on his arm, unused to showing affection. “I think you’ve always been a good man.”

Clark huffs and pulls his hand away. “Obviously, you haven’t known me for long then,” he mutters, and Bruce can hear the anger and sadness in his voice. “I’m not a good man.”

Bruce doesn’t argue. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s that Clark won’t listen to him if he does. This is a young man wrapped up in his failures, his father’s death burned into his mind. Telling him he’s something _more_ will fall on deaf ears.

Bruce would know.

So he stays quiet. He sips his drink and turns his head to watch the crackling of the logs as he tries to think about what’s next. He wracks his brain to try to pull up the schematics of the time weapon that Luthor had used to see if there’s something that he can maybe recreate here to send him back, or to know if it’s just a waiting game until Luthor or Victor reverse it and pull him back. He wouldn’t be surprised to know it’s that latter.

Clark sighs beside him after a considerable amount of time, and he reaches out to take Bruce’s empty mug from his grasp before standing and heading towards the kitchen. “You know,” he mentions as he rinses their mugs in the sink. “I made the toast for you to eat.”

Bruce had completely forgotten about that. The small stack of toast is no doubt cold by now, but he reaches for a piece to chew on anyway. It’s still savoury, the peanut butter sweet as it sticks to the roof of his mouth. He glances over to see Clark looks satisfied as he reaches for the red coat hanging on the hook by the door.

“I’ve got to go for my shift,” he says as he pulls on the plaid monstrosity and reaches for his gloves on the countertop. Bruce doesn’t think Clark really needs them, but he still has to fit in amongst the regular humans outside. “It’s only a few hours and then I’ll be back. I’ll bring something for dinner.” He gives Bruce a hesitant smile. “Reckon you won’t disappear while I’m gone?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Don’t think I’m going anywhere, anytime soon.”

Clark nods and shoves on his work boots. “See you in a few hours then, yeah?” he asks, and Bruce nods his head. Clark smiles again before he reaches for the doorknob and steps outside, closing the door in a hurry to keep the winter weather at bay.

It’s suddenly much quieter without Clark there, even though they hadn’t been speaking into their silence. It’s not until one of the logs on the fire lets out a loud crack that has Bruce jarred from his thoughts, and he turns to glare at it in indignation.

There’s nothing really to do once he’s finished his plate of toast. He takes it to the sink and gives both the plate and mugs a proper clean before leaving them on the bench to drip dry. He’s not about to rattle through the cupboards, even if Clark said he’s to make himself at home. He doesn’t think he’s going to be here for long enough to get comfortable.

It’s not until he’s making his way back to the sofa that he realises how tired he is. His body is suitable exhausted from the hike up here, if not from before wherever it was yanked from to accommodate him, but Bruce’s mind is starting to feel a little sluggish from the fight in the future, the yank back in time, and the overthinking he’s been doing to try to understand what’s happening.

So, it’s with a drained sigh that he flops down on the couch face first, drags the hideous blanket on top of him, and promptly drops off to sleep.

…

He’s woken with a start.

Someone’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking his face into the pillow it’s pressed into, and it’s just instinct that has him reaching up before he even opens his eyes and he _twists_ the wrist he wraps his hand around. He hears a yelp as he drags the arm down, sending the person crashing to their knees, and Bruce snaps out with his right leg to press his knee into their back.

“Bruce, it’s _me_.”

Clark’s voice makes his eyes snap open, and he glances over to see Clark glaring at him from where he’s kneeling between the sofa and coffee table. Bruce quickly let's go and pulls his leg back before pushing himself to his knees.

“Sorry,” he awkwardly apologises, and Clark continues to glare at him as he rights himself as well. He shakes his wrist and mutters something dark under his breath, and Bruce winces as he folds his hands in his lap. He knows he can’t hurt Clark, but Clark had mentioned after their drills back in the future that it’s still _uncomfortable _when Bruce hits him.

“Not used to being woken up then?” Clark asks, sounding a little bitter as he shakes his wrist pointedly at Bruce.

Bruce shrugs. “Normally people stand back and just yell at me,” he says honestly, thinking of Alfred who hasn’t shaken Bruce awake since the accidental black-eye Bruce gave him after his first watch as Batman. He still regrets that. “Otherwise…” He gestures vaguely at Clark, and Clark huffs as he gets to his feet and shakes his head.

“Noted,” he mutters, but he sounds less angry as he moves from the living area to the small kitchenette. There’s a paper bag sitting on the countertop that he starts to unpack as he talks over his shoulder. “I brought home some dinner. Thought you might be hungry again.” He gives Bruce a small smile as he pulls out two medium-sized containers. “Spaghetti or fettuccine?”

Bruce doesn’t know the right answer as he shuffles around to sit on the sofa properly. “Either,” he guesses, and Clark nods as he rattles around in the drawer for some utensils before he joins Bruce. He hands him the fettuccine, and Bruce delights in the smell as he opens the small cardboard container. It’s deliciously creamy, and he lets out a content sigh at the first bite.

They eat in silence. The fire has died down in the time Bruce has been asleep to glowing embers but the cabin is pleasantly warm. Bruce feels like there should be a television or radio playing, something to break up the silence, but he doubts there’s any kind of reception up this way for either.

“So,” Clark starts after he finishes his spaghetti and places the empty container on the coffee table. “Come up with any theories to get back to your own time?”

Bruce is a little surprised at the blatancy of the topic, and he finishes his mouthful with a quick gulp. “Not really,” he answers. “I’ve figured that there’s not much I can do from this end except wait.”

“Wait for…?”

Bruce hesitates. He doesn’t want to mention that he’s pretty much waiting for League to bring him back, least it raises questions about who they are. Clark is _incredibly_ inquisitive, but he’s not sure how much that is his reporter side that develops in the future. “For my team to reverse the time weapon used and bring me back,” he settles on before a grim smile crosses his face. “Or for the bastard who used it to bring me back too, although I don’t fancy my chances with that one.”

“Your team?” Clark asks, and Bruce winces. Probably not the best thing to say, but he hasn’t got a lot of options. He _also_ doesn’t have many ways that he can bullshit the term either.

“I’m part of a league of… law enforcers,” he explains hesitantly, and Clark looks more than interested so Bruce sacrifices what’s left of his pasta to ditch it on the coffee table. “We’re a group of people with certain abilities that try to protect the earth from… other people with certain abilities.”

Clark cocks an eyebrow. “Like superhuman police officers?”

Bruce winces. “Not exactly.”

“No offence,” Clark says, “but you don’t exactly look the type of person to be in some sort of _league_.”

Bruce flinches at the term, hoping that Clark won’t cling to it. “I’ve got twenty years to change,” he points out vaguely. “Give it time.”

Clark huffs and crosses his arms as he leans back against the armrest. “Is this sort of like Back to the Future?” he asks, and it nearly startles a laugh out of Bruce. “Talking about the future might change it?”

“Maybe,” Bruce muses. “But then again, I’m currently in my twenty-seven-year-old body instead of my future one, I’ve been moved to Alaska instead of the fancy party I should be attending on this date, and I’m looking at you, who I’m not supposed to meet for years to come.” Bruce shrugs and gives Clark an awkward smile. “So I have no idea what kind of time travel this is or how it’s going to affect the future but it’s better to be cautious than run the risk of harming the future.”

Clark watches him with an unreadable expression for a moment before he sighs. “Can’t fault you there,” he agrees. “So, we stay away from any questions involving the future then?”

“Rather safe than sorry?” Bruce offers, and Clark’s lips twitch.

He doesn’t reply though, and Bruce turns his gaze back to the embers of the fire. He contemplates getting up and stoking it, but he doesn’t want to break the comfortable air nor move from his spot. Something about the cabin relaxes him, or maybe it’s the knowledge that there is _nothing_ he can do to help his position so stressing about it is just pointless.

“You know,” Bruce begins after a while. “I didn’t ask how you knew I wasn’t from this time.”

Clark huffs, and Bruce glances over to see him looking back with a small smile. “You know about my powers,” he answers simply. “No one does outside of my parents, especially not Bruce Wayne from Gotham City who I’ve _never_ met.” He purses his lips and looks away. “My father always said that there would a day that everyone would know. I’m guessing he was right.”

Bruce hesitates to answer, wanting to stick to not saying anything about the future, but the look on Clark’s face is heartbreaking. “He was,” Bruce decides. “He was right. You’re going to be a great hero one day, Clark.”

“Part of this league maybe?”

Bruce purses his lips and refuses to answer, and for a moment, Clark looks almost mad. But the look breaks and he lets out a shuddering breath as he drops his gaze.

“I hope I’ll make him proud,” Clark ponders, and Bruce nods. He wants to reassure Clark that he _will_ make his father proud, hell, he’s made _Bruce_ proud. 

But it’s not what he needs to hear, and Bruce can’t speak for a dead man.

Clark shakes himself after a moment though and gives Bruce a small smile. “So what’s the deal then?” he asks. “Is this fixed travel or multiverse or…?”

Bruce blinks at him in surprise. “You know the types of time travel theory?”

Clark grins and gestures over at the bookshelf across from them. “The people who lived here before me were science-fiction junkies, I think,” he says, and Bruce glances over to see that there are a phenomenal amount of E. E. Smith and George Orwell novels. He doesn’t know much about the latter, only having read a smattering of his books, but he knows that Alfred has always been partial to E. E. Smith and read them to Bruce a lot when he was a boy. There’s an entire shelf dedicated to all of them tucked away in their library, so they’re at least familiar.

Clark gets to his feet and walks over to the bookshelf, pausing to toss the cardboard containers into the fire to burn. The fire roars for a moment, but Clark’s attention is on the books as he pulls out one out that has clearly been very well-loved. Bruce can hardly see the name on the spine with how bad the marks are from the paperback being bent every which way whilst it’s been read, but Clark brings it over as he sits back down.

“A Sound of Thunder,” Clark reads out as he shows the book to Bruce. “I’ve read it a few times, but I think the previous owners were huge fans.”

“Isn’t this a time travel book?” Bruce asks as he takes the book from Clark. It’s familiar, he’s pretty sure he may have seen it before from out of Alfred’s collection, and he turns it over to read the blurb on the back. Once again though, it’s hard to read as the words seem blurry, maybe a dud copy, and he glances up to see Clark is nodding.

“It’s something about travelling back in time to kill dinosaurs,” Clark explains, “but there’s a heavy emphasis on not changing things in the past because a tiny alteration can lead to disastrous consequences in the future.” He shrugs as he takes the book back off Bruce. “There’s a whole problem with someone messing up badly in the past and everything changes when they get back to the future, but it’s not because of what that person did, but it’s because one of the guys that went back stepped on a butterfly.”

“That’s taking the butterfly effect to the extreme,” Bruce mutters, and Clark snorts but nods in agreement.

“Will your team be trying to get you back?” he asks, and Bruce stiffens for a moment. His relationship with his team has always been strenuous at best, and he knows that’s mostly because of his own social incompetence at times, but he does believe that they are trying to get him back.

“I hope so,” he admits.

“But you don’t know when that will be?”

Bruce shakes his head. 

Clark harrumphs but nods again. “Well,” he says, trying to sound a bit cheerful as he taps the front of the book, “I think that in the meantime we should try and stick to the rules of these books and movies we’ve seen. No messing with the past less it destroys the future and even if that’s not gonna happen because you’re in a fixed timeline, we should still err on the side of caution.”

Bruce blinks at him for a moment before he shakes his head in disbelief. “You don’t mind me staying here?” he asks hesitantly. He hasn’t thought about where he’s going after this, but he thought that would be a problem for tomorrow. If Clark is happy to keep him here then maybe that would solve a fair few problems.

He ignores the thumping of his heart at the thought of staying here, squashing it far _far_ down.

“I think if I let you go, then the time continuum has the potential of getting messed up,” Clark points out. “There’s not much you can do up here in Denali that will change the future, unless you cause a few avalanches.” He pokes Bruce’s arm and grins when Bruce automatically smacks his hand away. “And you’re not planning on doing that, are you?”

Bruce just stares at him for a long moment. Long enough that the smile drops off Clark’s face and he sighs as he pushes Bruce gently.

“In all books I’ve read and movies I’ve seen, what’s minutes in the future is weeks in the past,” Clark explains. “You could be here for a really long time, Bruce, and I’m not kicking you out. It’s not just for the good of the future and time continuum, but the thought of getting rid of you never even crossed my mind.” He smiles brightly, and Bruce just blinks at him stupidly. “I’m on a pilgrimage to find my way in this world, and I think helping people is part of that. Let me help you.”

“You want to help me?” Bruce repeats, feeling absolutely _idiotic_, but Clark lets out a small laugh and lifts the paperback book to whack Bruce gently on the head.

“You gotta listen, Bruce,” he states cheerfully. “Of course I’m going to help you.”

Bruce doesn’t know what to do or say, so he settles for a smile as he murmurs, “thank you.”

Clark grins and pats his shoulder as he drops the book onto the coffee table. “So,” he says, “since you’re staying here for the inevitable future, we best get this place set up to handle two.”

He doesn’t wait for Bruce to say anything, just hops to his feet, and heads towards the bedroom and, after contemplating whether to follow or not, Bruce stands to join him.

…

Surprisingly, the village welcomes Bruce with only _some_ hesitance.

There’s not many of them. Maybe a hundred or so people? Enough that everyone knows each other rather well. There aren’t many children running around, and Clark explains that most of the families stay at the town that’s about two hours by truck down the road. The workers of the families come and stay for the duration of fourish days before heading back to town for three days, rinse and repeat. 

Since the avalanche, there’s been plenty of free housing. The mortalities were quite high and some houses are still buried at the back of the village, something that the residents aren’t particularly happy about. Clark’s in the old cook’s house, and Bruce finds out from one of the older ladies of the community that it was her and her husband who were the die-hard science fiction fans. They’d been here for ten years before they didn’t make it out of the avalanche when it buried the old meeting hall and kitchen.

Clark takes him to meet the council of elders the next day. It’s clearly a traditional sort of village with the elders being the de-facto leaders of the community, and they are all heavily guarded as Bruce steps into the meeting hall to meet them. Clark introduces Bruce as an old friend who’d come to help with the rebuild, and Bruce is almost certain that one of the older women with the hardest glare doesn’t believe them one bit. Overall though, the general consensus is to welcome him, and Bruce is soon assigned work within the small community.

He doesn’t get given hard labour like building and milling though. One elderly man points out how thin and sallow he is, and the council agrees that he’s not to do anything too hard until they’ve fattened him up. Those are nearly the exact words, and Bruce thinks that Clark has a good amount of self-control as he waits until _after_ they’ve left the council to burst out laughing.

So he becomes a sort of jack of trades. He assists the new cook with food prep for the mealtimes, he’s handed the clipboard with the safety building codes on them and runs checks on all the new cabins being built, he lifts, carries, and nails when help is needed, and he surprisingly spends a _lot_ of time with Clark.

The shifts aren’t long. Bruce finds out its because the weather _is_ atrocious coming into the early winter, and they get blizzards nearly every day. The community has a newly built large meeting hall where the council convenes, but it’s also used for meals and social gatherings. There’s one television in the whole village, which is in the meeting hall, but the connection to TV stations is staticky at best so they normally settle for DVDs that have been brought up by the townsfolk down the road.

It takes Bruce only a few days to realise that Clark tends to exclude himself from the community. It’s not that they’re both not welcome, quite the opposite really with the younger members of the village constantly inviting them out, but it’s just that Clark clearly prefers the solace of his cabin and Bruce isn’t averse to it either. He’s never been a people person, and it only takes a while before it’s common for them to spend their evenings both sunk into their sides of the couch with a book each.

Bruce catches himself comparing this Clark and future Clark together a lot. It’s not weird or anything, but he’s surprised at seeing how this Clark isn’t quite the positive one Bruce knows and works with. Its why Diana often pairs them up together in the future, claiming they balance each other out with Clark’s eternal sunshine and Bruce’s doom and gloom. He doesn’t mind her doing so though. Clark really _is_ his opposite in many ways, and they work perfectly together inside and outside of the League back in his time.

But this Clark is a little different. He’s not eternal sunshine yet. Bruce can see he has a weight on his shoulders and he’s holding onto something dark. Sometimes his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and Bruce finds that the most unsettling. Even if he is loathed to admit it, Clark’s bright smiles have always been his favourite part about him and he finds himself _missing_ them.

Although, it’s okay. After a couple of days of awkwardness, it becomes an easy rhythm. Clark works until it’s time to stop, Bruce wanders around and fills in where he can, and each mealtime it’s Bruce who collects enough for them both and finds Clark to share time together. They’ve sat on scaffolding in the snow, on the porch outside his cabin, on top of the counters in the kitchen, in the meeting hall a handful of times, and on the sofa in front of the fire. It’s peaceful, Bruce will admit, and he finds himself relaxing.

The conversation between them flows after a few hilted stops. Finding out what to talk about is hard when they’re trying to avoid all topics to do with the future. Clark is clearly curious and interested, and Bruce finds he _wants_ to tell Clark who he is and who he becomes, but he can’t. He can’t risk doing any damage to his time in the future or the time here in the past.

So they write a list of things not to bring up. It’s hard to stick to, but they manage.

“Favourite colour?” Clark asks him when Bruce hands him a wooden bowl of casserole. He has to stop and think, and his mind immediately goes to the future. He thinks of Clark in his Superman suit, and he can’t help but give Clark a small smile.

“Blue,” he says. Clark blinks at him before he smiles back.

“Mine’s yellow. Like sunshine.”

Of course, it is, Bruce can’t help but think. He can’t stop his smile as he shakes his head. It’s cold outside where they sit on the meeting hall’s porch, and he shuffles just a little closer to Clark who seems to _constantly_ radiate heat.

“Favourite animal?” Bruce asks when they’re halfway through their food. Clark hums, a deep sound, and Bruce looks up to see Clark looking off into the distance with a thoughtful look on his face.

“It would be patriotic to say the bald eagle,” Clark muses, and Bruce almost bursts out laughing. If anything, Clark will _definitely_ grow up to be patriotic. Part of him wishes the League were here to see this, to see what Clark was like. He knows Barry would definitely laugh. They might even get a smirk out of Victor.

“But what’s it really?”

Clark glances down at him, his eyes shining just a little. “Dogs,” he admits. “I love dogs.” He sighs, and he looks wistful for a long moment. “When I was younger I kept trying to convince my parents that we should foster all the stray animals we could get our hands on. We live on a farm, so I thought there would be plenty of room for them all. We could have paddocks and yards full of them, and none of them would ever have to go without food or shelter or love ever again.”

“And what did your parents say?” Bruce prompts when Clark has been silent for too long. Clark sighs and stabs at what's left of his casserole.

“They told me that we didn’t have the money. I didn’t understand then, but I do now,” he mutters. “But they also told me I was never to lose that compassion.” He shrugs. “I just didn’t want all those animals in the world to be alone, you know?”

“I think that’s a pretty admirable thing, Clark,” Bruce hears himself say, and he’s surprised at his own honestly. He looks away quickly when Clark meets his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that compassionate.”

“I know about the charities you run,” Clark points out though, and Bruce grits his teeth together. “I know the press tries to only report about your scandals and all those superficial things, but my father used to read all the financial magazines. There was always something in them about the Martha Wayne Foundation or the Thomas Children’s Fund.”

“You know about those, huh?” Bruce asks. He wonders if Clark has always known about them? Even when he was facing off against Bruce when they first met? Maybe somewhere along the way, he forgot about them? Bruce wouldn’t be surprised. Scandals took over his life more than the charitable organisation he ran. Charities don’t sell magazines, but Bruce Wayne’s latest bimbo sure does.

Clark nods. “Dad would read them to me sometimes.” He sighs. “He told me once that you were just a kid thrown into an adult world, and I think he was right.” Bruce glances up and feels almost overwhelmed at the care on Clark’s face. “You’ve done pretty damn well for what life has dealt you.”

Bruce really doesn’t know what to say. He just stares straight back and minutely shakes his head. He’s never heard something like this from Clark, and it’s absolutely _flooring_ him.

But then Clark frowns. “Has future me never told you any of this?” Clark asks, and Bruce bites the inside of his cheek before he glances away.

“We’re not exactly… _close_ in the future, Clark,” he mumbles. The bowl in his hands has grown cool now, and he fiddles with his fork as he continues to avert Clark’s eyes. This is all so odd, and he never thought he’d hear anything like this from Clark.

“Huh,” Clark hums, and his hand comes down onto Bruce’s knee, “future me sucks then.”

_That_ makes Bruce give an abrupt laugh, and Clark squeezes his knee until Bruce looks up to see a smile on Clark’s face. It’s a good look on him, and Bruce isn’t averse to admitting that.

“Thanks, Clark,” he eventually says. Clark nods and moves his hand as he pokes around at the leftovers of his casserole. The silence between them is comfortable, and Bruce just lets himself sit and watch Clark for a while.

In honesty, he’s actually glad that it’s Clark that he’s bumped into out here. It could’ve been anyone, he knows, and he doesn’t think that Luthor intended for this to happen, but he’s _glad_ it has. If anything, seeing what Clark was like when he was younger has been a bit of an eye-opener.

“What’s yours?” Clark interrupts his thoughts, and Bruce frowns.

“My what?”

Clark rolls his eyes and he moves closer to Bruce as he nudges him. “Your favourite animal,” he states. Bruce had completely forgotten about the question, and he has to _think_ about the answer, trying to ignore the heat of Clark’s thigh pressing firmly against his now. 

It would be typical for him to say a bat. Everyone thinks it’s a bat because of Batman. He’s terrified of them, actually. Falling through the pit in front of his parent’s mausoleum when he was younger and being swarmed by them had left one hell of an impression, but he’d tried to turn that fear into protection by becoming Batman.

So no, bats are not his favourite animal. He doesn’t actually know if he has one. He’s never had pets and he’s never really had much to do with animals outside of a few hefty donations to some zoos and national parks. They’ve just never really been on his agenda.

“Dogs,” he decides, and Clark looks at him in surprise. “Dogs are my favourite too.”

If they weren’t before, they definitely are now as Clark bursts out into a brilliantly bright grin.

…

A week ticks by easily. 

Bruce doesn’t really notice it as he falls more and more into a routine. At first, he’d slept on the sofa but, after a few days of having a sore back, Clark had just insisted he come and share the queen-sized bed. It’s big enough for them both, and Bruce has definitely felt better sleeping in it.

So he wakes in the morning. More often than not, Clark is already up and pottering in the kitchen. Each day is a different breakfast, and most of the time it’s _delicious_. Clark has a single cookbook that sits on the kitchen windowsill that he _swears_ by, and Bruce doesn’t doubt him. He recognises the cover as the same one in the mansion’s kitchen back home, Martha Kent’s handwriting curving over each page, and he thinks it’s sweet that she’d obviously written out this recipe book before Clark had left years ago. There are even the same pictures taken from an old film camera, neatly cut and glued into the corners, and the margins are all filled with small reassuring notes for him. It makes Bruce feel like he’s being a bit of a voyeur, and he doesn’t read the personalised messages as he flicks through.

By mid-morning, they’re both out doing something. In the last couple of days, four Alaskan malamutes have arrived at the village with a very exhausted musher on the back. While the musher is recovering, the council has taken the opportunity to assign Bruce to the four dogs. He walks them twice a day, feeds them their meals, and takes them with him when the elder ladies nab Bruce for a hand with their knitting and crocheting. He unpicks and rewinds yarn, fetches more when they finish a ball, but more often than not he’s actually just a source of gossip for them. They delight in hearing the stories of Gotham, and Bruce doesn’t actually mind whether he slips up and tell them something that won’t happen for a few months yet. They’re quite far removed from the world up here. It doesn’t matter.

At lunch, he and Clark meet up again, sometimes with the malamutes in tow. Normally, Bruce will assist the cook with the large lunch meal, and he always nabs two plates or bowls of whatever the dish is. They still try to find somewhere that’s quiet to eat, far away from the curious eyes of the village members, and they quiz each other on their favourite things, discuss the books they’re reading, or sometimes they just share each others company in silence.

Clark loves the malamutes. Bruce starts making sure to bring them with him just to see Clark’s eyes light up as the four crowd around them both and steal bits of food from between Clark’s fingers.

Bruce always helps with clean up after that, but it’s not long until the sun sets by mid-afternoon. December is cold and dark, Bruce realises after only a couple of days, and there’s only a rough window between mid-morning and mid-afternoon before it’s too dark to do much work.

“How long do you think it’s been for your team?” Clark asks Bruce once the first week has past and they’re almost halfway into the second. Bruce shrugs as he enters their cabin and shucks off the plaid coat that Clark has given him to hang on the hook. It’s the hideous red one with the sheepskin collars, and Bruce hasn’t said anything to Clark about the significance it holds to him.

“Maybe a few hours, maybe a week,” Bruce muses as he reaches out for Clark’s coat to hang beside his. “Worst-case scenario, it’s only been a few minutes or seconds.”

“Worst-case,” Clark teases, and Bruce scowls at him. “Not liking it here then?”

That’s the worst question, Bruce thinks as he turns from Clark to the hooks, because he _is_ enjoying his time here. Even though he should be worried that he’s changing the time continuum or that he mightn’t get back to his own time at all, it’s _fine_. He’s relaxed here. There is nothing and no one to hurt him. He’s not worried about the League in any way, he’s not wary of the next attack from Luthor or his fellow villains, and he’s not at _all_ bothered about being Bruce Wayne.

He’s just Bruce here. Just another person amongst the community. He’s there with a helping hand if needed, but he’s not got any responsibilities or expectations on his shoulders. He’s _happy_.

And that’s not exactly common.

“Well, the food isn’t exactly up to my usual standard,” Bruce points out with raised eyebrows, and Clark playfully smacks his arm before he pushes him further into the cabin.

“Snob,” he jokes cheerfully, and Bruce rolls his eyes but dutifully walks over to begin stacking the logs in the fireplace. Clark starts rummaging in the kitchen with the food they’d brought back from the meeting hall. The cook is off sick tonight, so the village is on their own for making food, although it did look like a couple of the old boys were attempting to make a curry, with no prior experience at _all_, in the kitchen when they’d left to head back home.

Bruce really didn’t want to get involved in _that_ debacle.

He finishes stacking the wood and he calls out to Clark that he’s ready. Clark barely looks up from the cooking tray in front of him to fire off his laser vision, setting the logs on a crackling fire. Bruce adds another couple of logs on top and takes a brief moment to allow the sudden burst of to warm the tip of his nose before he dusts his hands off and heads to the bathroom to wash up. He gets back to the kitchen in time for Clark to pop the crumbed chicken breasts in the stove and turn to Bruce with a grin.

“Chicken and mashed potatoes,” he declares as he unfolds the paper bag he’d carried the food home in. “We’re dining like kings tonight.”

Bruce shakes his head but there’s a smile on his lips. Alfred will be thrilled to know he’s eating proper meals up here, especially since young Bruce had actively decided that whiskey was the only dinner he’d need for _years_. Bruce doesn’t know why. He _likes_ food.

Or maybe he likes the food that Clark makes because… well, _Clark_ made it.

He quickly shoves the thought away. He’s not to be dwelling on those kinds of things right now. Instead, he focuses on Clark who is having a rather comical discussion with himself over what bag of frozen vegetables they’re going to have. It’s rather endearing, which _isn’t_ helping, but Bruce leans against the counter and just watches him with raised eyebrows.

“Corn,” Clark announces, looking rather satisfied as he drops the bag of peas back into the small freezer tucked under the bench. “I’ve decided on corn.”

“Congratulations,” Bruce drawls. “Crisis averted.”

Clark sticks his tongue out at him but turns to the bubbling pot on the stove and pours in the corn to cook. Bruce can’t help but smile and he ducks his head to hide it, and when he looks back up it’s to see Clark giving him one of his soft smiles.

“You’re not serious about not liking it up here, are you?” he asks quietly, dead serious as he steps forward into Bruce’s space. 

Bruce nearly laughs, but he notices the look on Clark’s face is one of those sensitive ones he pulls out every now and again, something that Bruce recognises from the present more than here in the past. It’s a genuine question, one that Bruce needs to answer with honesty and he reaches out to drop a hand on Clark’s shoulder.

“Not at all,” he admits with a straight face. “You’ve made me more than welcome, Clark. Hell, maybe I don’t want to go home after all.”

Clark blinks at him before his face curls into a small smile. “Seriously?” he asks hesitantly as he moves into Bruce’s space, crowding him against the counter. “You know… you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. It’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon, and even if I were, you could still come with me.” He shrugs. “It’d be nice to have someone around, you know? Someone to depend on. And I like you, Bruce. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who I’ve liked as much as you.”

Bruce frowns as he drops his hand from Clark’s shoulder. “You don’t even know me,” he points out slowly, and Clark lets out a startled laugh as he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” Clark says, and he smiles at Bruce. “Something feels right here. For the last week and a half, I haven’t stopped feeling like I _do_ know you, Bruce. Like we were always meant to meet.”

The statement is a little overwhelming all of sudden, but Bruce can see the genuineness of Clark’s words, and for an honest moment, Bruce actually _considers_ the option. Considers staying here with Clark up in the mountains and not going home.

But it’s not a choice, and he _knows_ that. The team will pull him back eventually and this little bubble of _something_ that he’s built here in the past will pop. He’ll be back to the real world, back to being part of the League, back to being something bigger than himself.

And he’ll be back to watching Clark eventually end up back with Lois, and the fact _that’s_ what occurs to him the _most_ is what has him breaking the moment with a forced laugh as he takes the bag of corn from Clark’s grip.

“Even if I could stay,” he says as he pushes past Clark to the small freezer, breaking the moment tersely, “I don’t think I really have a choice.”

His shoulders stiffen as Clark sighs behind him. “There’s always a choice,” he murmurs, but Bruce doesn’t think he was supposed to hear it. He chooses not to acknowledge it anyway.

He can’t turn around and look at Clark just yet, so he puts the corn away and has a brief look at the stove. It’s barely been a few minutes, so the food is _definitely_ not ready, but Bruce uses it as an excuse anyway. By the time he glances back at Clark, Clark seems to have straightened himself up as he smiles at Bruce.

It’s not the bright one that Bruce likes to see, but it’s _still_ something.

“Ever been on a nature walk?” he asks abruptly, and Bruce blinks at him for a moment before he shakes his head.

“Not exactly that many nature walks around Gotham,” he points out. “Urban lifestyles are pretty nature-free.”

Clark frowns. “Well, that’s ridiculous,” he shakes his head, “I think we’re going to have to rectify that.”

It’s a blatant change of topic if Bruce has ever seen one, but he takes it with both hands as he shakes his head again. “Alright then,” he agrees in contradiction. “I’ll give it a shot.”

…

The nature walk, as it turns out, is not really a walk but more of a jaunt through ankle-deep snow in a vague direction _away_ from the village.

It takes them a couple of days to organise themselves. Clark borrows some bits and pieces from some of the people in the community, thankfully a compass is one of them, and he sources a sturdier pair of boots for Bruce than the ones he’s been using.

“There’s no snow shovelled where we’re going,” he explains as Bruce tugs on the thicker boots. “Don’t want you getting frostbite.”

“Thanks,” Bruce mutters slightly sarcastically, but he is thankful for the extra padding and warmth that the boots provide. He’s starting to regret agreeing to go on this walk with the amount of prep they’re needing to do, but Clark gets more and more excited by the minute so Bruce hides his complaints and worries.

There’s no real danger when it comes to wildlife. Most hibernate during winter, and those that don’t tend to avoid humans up this way if they come across them. Clark excitedly tells him about some animals that see humans as other strange wild animals though, and the look on his face as he reminisces on the few that he has encountered is truly stunning.

They leave for their walk at the crack of dawn. The only ones up are the four malamutes that lie on the meeting hall’s porch, and the quartet watch them pass with half-opened eyes. Clark pauses to rummage around in his pack, and Bruce rolls his eyes when he sees that Clark has filched some cooked stir-fry beef from the kitchen in his hands that he feeds each dog with an accompanying scratch behind the ears. 

Admittedly, it also makes Bruce smile, but he doesn’t show it when Clark turns back around to join him.

The air is brisk and fresh as they trudge into the woods just past the village. Clark takes the lead as he pushes away snow-covered branches, avoiding the snow as it falls in large clumps to nearly land on their shoulders. He holds them up for Bruce to duck under and thankfully manages to only get one lot of snow on Bruce’s hair, wetting it immediately.

“Whoops,” Clark says, and he brushes the snow off with a wince. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Bruce pushes him away but gives him a small smile. Clark’s returning one is huge, and he reaches out to pull the hood on the jersey under Bruce’s coat up over Bruce’s head. Bruce lets him, and they linger for a moment before Bruce clears his throat and Clark starts to lead the way again.

By the time they get to a small outcrop of trees that create a natural path through the woods, Clark is like an excitable puppy as he bounces around Bruce, chattering away at a mile a minute. Bruce is honestly just clinging onto the straps of his backpack as he trudges along, but he enjoys listening to Clark. He learns as they walk, learns of the animals in the park, the weather patterns, the native plants that line this natural path. Clark trots ahead and comes back with small handfuls of native berries that he assures Bruce is perfectly harmless as Bruce tastes the sweet flavours on his tongue.

For a bitterly cold day, Bruce _enjoys_ it. He enjoys the company and he can see just how beautiful Denali is. The sun is peeking out today, making the snow glisten and the icicles that are on some of the branches twinkle as they melt. The mountain peak is _just_ able to be seen, protruding boldly out from the clouds above them. Clark tells Bruce about the time he walked to the tip of the mountain, and he’s breathless when he talks about the view.

After a few hours go by, Bruce starts to wonder if Clark actually has a direction they’re going until they get to the end of the naturally made path and Clark pushes apart a wall of bushes for Bruce to nudge through. It’s dark and scratchy from the thick branches for a brief moment, but by the time he gets out on the other side of the wall, Bruce can see _exactly_ where Clark wanted to take him.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Clark murmurs as he comes to stand beside Bruce. Bruce, who’s speechless as he looks down the slight incline at the sight before him.

It’s a _gorgeous_ glacial lake. It’s large enough that Bruce can only just see the other side as it leads up into another forested area, but he doesn’t care much to look at the other side as the iridescent blue-green colour literally _sparkles_ in front of him.

“It’s rock flour that gives it the iridescent look,” Clark explains as he places a hand on Bruce’s elbow and starts to tug him forward. 

Bruce steps out with him onto a bed of rocks, and he lets Clark guide him down as Clark points out what looks like a small avalanche flowing into the water on the other side of the lake. Bruce knows it’s not snow, it’s too chalky, and it is still white where it bleeds into the lake. If it were snow, it would’ve melted against the water, so it must be the rock flour that Clark is talking about.

“Glacial erosion makes this sort of clay-like dust that leaks into the water,” Clark continues to explain as they trek over the rocks on the lakeshore towards the rock flour. He points to where certain parts of the lake are frozen solid. “In the summer, it’ll all melt and the water will rise to cover the rocks we’re standing on.” He sighs, and when Bruce glances at him it’s to see a fond smile on his face. “Nature is incredible, sometimes.”

“It is,” Bruce murmurs in agreement. He makes sure to turn his hand to grip Clark’s forearm. The rocks are slippery as they walk along, small sheens of ice on some of them. Clark’s hold is tight though, and they navigate the rocks together as they move around the corner of an outcrop of trees where Bruce can _really_ see how big the lake is.

It’s huge, _incredible_, and Bruce’s eyes widen just a little. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so _pure_ before, not at this age and not in the future. He’s a man who lives a life in scandals and horror, but seeing something that reminds him the world isn’t always terrible very nearly brings tears to his eyes.

Clark continues to move them until Bruce spots that they’re heading towards a fallen spruce tree. Most of the needles have rotted into the ground and snow has fallen over what’s left, but there’s a small patch of snowless wood and Clark grins as he pulls Bruce forward to perch on the free space.

“How’s this for your first nature walk then?” Clark asks when they’re both settled on the wood. Bruce has to tear his eyes away from the sparkling water in front of him to respond, but it’s hard. It’s so picturesque, beautiful, _stunning_. Bruce makes a note to come back in the future one day.

“I’ve had better,” Bruce lies, and Clark snorts as he grins and looks away. Bruce’s eyes follow him, watching the way the sun beams down on Clark and he turns his head just _so_ to meet it. For a moment, he’s not sure what is more eye-catching. The lake? Or Clark?

Those thoughts make him grit his teeth as he forces himself to look away. He can’t have those thoughts. He needs to put a stop to them. Letting himself _feel_ like this isn’t going to help anyone.

Thankfully, Clark starts to pull bits and pieces out of their packs. There’s a warm thermos and tin mugs that he pours steaming hot coffee in. Even with his gloves, Bruce’s hands are cold, and he accepts the new source of warmth with both hands.

Clark’s talking again. Bruce listens intently about moose and migration patterns, where the black and grizzly bears are probably all tucked away for hibernation, how the glacial shelves around the lake will melt in summer and reform again in winter. Clark knows so much about the area, and he’s clearly passionate as he waves one hand in the air in excited animation to match his words.

It makes Bruce wonder what Clark would have done had he not become Superman. This Clark knows some of his powers, but they’re most subconscious. Extra strength here, better hearing there. He’s not come to his awakening yet. He’s still just… _Clark_.

“If you could do anything,” Bruce suddenly interrupts, the urge to _know_ bigger than the urge to listen, “and I mean _anything_, what would it be?”

Clark stumbles to a halt with his words, and his gaze becomes thoughtful. He taps his fingers on his tin mug, the noise sharp in the silent air, and Bruce waits patiently as he sips his coffee and watches Clark’s thoughts play out on his face.

“Maybe something to do with conservation,” Clark eventually decides. He looks uncertain when he glances at Bruce, but he must see something reassuring as the uncertainty drifts away. “I want to help, you know? Humans or animals, it doesn’t matter. I want my life to have a purpose beyond being another fly on the wall that watches as the world crumbles.” He sighs and rolls his shoulders. “There are too many people out there who just sit by and let things _happen_. I don’t want to be one of them.” He smiles at Bruce. “I want to be the person that always helps, even if it’s something as simple as giving someone a place to stay when they’re lost in the snow.”

It’s rather pointed, and Bruce ducks his head as he realises that smile is just for him. Clark’s wish to help is definitely inspirational, and Bruce hums to let Clark know he’s heard him. He’s not too sure how Clark got from _that_ to being a reporter. He thinks it might have something to do with a certain red-head, but he could be wrong. He can see how being a reporter could help people.

Maybe he’s only skeptical because of his own run-ins with reporters? He thinks of Clark though, and no, he’s not like other reporters. He’s _different_. 

“You care a lot, don’t you?” Bruce muses, and Clark huffs.

“Someone needs too,” he points out. He gives Bruce a soft look, and Bruce nods back at him before he turns his attention away.

Their conversation is lighter after that as Clark pulls out a small tupperware container filled with afghan cookies. They’re delicious, clearly the work of the elders from the other day where the cook left them to fend for themselves. They eat and drink and Clark tells Bruce more stories about nature as the sun tracks over above them. 

Inevitably, they do have to go back. Bruce doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay by the lake and watch Clark talk all day, wants to feel the sun and wind on his cheeks and just exist for a little while longer.

But that’s not the case, especially not when the sun will set in a few hours, so they pack their bags and slowly move back up the rock bank to the path they’d created through the bush.

Their tracks are still there, but Clark pulls out the compass anyway to double-check. Bruce is happy to follow along as Clark forges ahead, and they tramp together in peace until Bruce is surprised by Clark’s hand on his elbow.

“Look,” he leans down to murmur into Bruce’s ear, and he points forward with his other hand. Bruce looks the way he’s gesturing, and it takes him a moment until he sees what Clark is referring too.

On the path in front of them is a small bundle of fur and, even though Bruce has never personally seen one outside of a classroom, he can tell it’s an Arctic Fox. It’s paused mid-step as it stares at them, and Bruce stares back in a mixture of shock and awe. 

“I’ve been here for seven months,” Clark mutters in his ear as he pulls Bruce backwards slowly towards the tree line behind them, “and I’ve never seen one.”

“I thought they were common?”

Clark smiles down at him. “I haven’t left the village _that_ much,” he explains. “And they don’t come in to see us.” His eyes slip away from Bruce to whatever is behind him, and Bruce’s breath hitches as Clark leans right into his space. 

They’re incredibly close for a moment, enough so that Bruce can smell the wooden cologne that Clark puts on after shaving. It’s a bit intoxicating, and Bruce’s hand hovers over Clark’s waist as he nearly needs to balance himself before he hears a muffed snap and Clark pulls away. 

“Coming?” he asks, and Bruce is a bit dazed as he shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he’s not agreeing to do, but Clark just nods back at him before he starts to move slowly away.

He’s heading towards the fox, and Bruce watches with wide eyes as Clark inches across the expanse of snow. The fox quirks it’s head to the side and seems more curious than worried, and Bruce can see it’s nose twitch as Clark opens his extended hand to show a small pile of berries.

Oh, it’s a berry bush behind him. _That’s_ what Clark was leaning into Bruce for. That makes more sense, but Bruce can’t help but still feel completely warm all over from where Clark was pressed into his space.

Maybe Bruce can’t exactly deny that he maybe fancies Clark a little. Maybe. To be fair, Alfred _has_ been teasing him about his feelings for a least the last year now back in his time, and Diana especially also enjoys the odd heckling. Bruce refuses to acknowledge any of their attempts to get him to talk about his feelings, he can’t even think about them without fear of drowning in them, but he’ll admit to himself that there is the odd time where his gaze lingers on Clark for too long and his chest may warm a bit much at Clark’s smile.

In any case, future Clark is oblivious to it all, or at least Bruce hopes he is. He hasn’t ever given any inclination that he knows Bruce’s secret.

Not that it matters. Future Clark is in love with Lois Lane. Bruce doesn’t stand a damn chance with him and he _knows_ that, and he _knows_ that he shouldn’t be entertaining any ideas right now. It’s not right to be taking advantage of the situation like this.

But he can’t help his heart fluttering just a little as he watches Clark talk to the small fox, offering the berries in the palm of his hand. Even if Bruce didn’t know Clark wasn’t from Earth, he’d assume there was something different that separates him from other humans. There’s something warm and gentle, compassionate and wholesome, and Bruce knows it’s _silly_ but he can’t help but feel like he’s a moth drawn to Clark’s flame.

He knows he’s felt like that for the Clark from his time, but he’s never given the feelings the chance to grow and bud into something else. There’s nothing but unhappiness and depression back waiting for him in his time if he _ever_ does indulge in those feelings. 

But here? There’s nothing else for them to do _but_ grow, and Bruce doesn’t know what he can do to stop that.

“Bruce?”

Clark’s call jars him from his thoughts, and he just raises a hand at Clark to let him know he’s okay. He doesn’t step forward. He doesn’t want to ruin this, and his fingers itch for a camera to capture the moment. His eyes will have to do, and he shakes his head as Clark grins at him before he turns back to the fox, and Bruce’s lips quirk into a small smile. 

Yes, he thinks, there is _definitely _something about Clark.

…

Sometimes, Clark will come with him when he takes the dogs for a walk through the forest.

Bruce enjoys the company, and he enjoys the fact that Clark takes two of the four leashes and Bruce’s arms don’t get nearly ripped off like they do when he has all four. The malamutes are beautiful dogs, but their leader, Balto, has a bad habit of straining as much as he can against the leash no matter how much Bruce tries to placate him.

“He loves you, really,” Clark laughs on one walk as Balto gives a particularly harsh tug and Bruce ends up face first in the snow, spitting out dirt from his mouth. Balto hovers over him, almost in apology, and Bruce makes sure to put all his weight on the dog as he uses him to push himself to his feet. 

The walks pass just the same as every other time they spend together. Clark is a fiend for not liking silences, and eventually, they run out of asking favourite questions about colours and animals and end up divulging into other questions. Bruce turns a hideous red colour when Clark asks him who his first _kiss_ was but, thankfully, Clark seems to get the hint and steers away from such _personal _topics.

Although, it _is_ only after Bruce had admitted that his first kiss was Harvey Dent when they twelve at primary school and there was a cramped game of spin the bottle in one of the janitor’s closets, and Clark had roared with laughter until Bruce pointed out that at least _his_ wasn’t because Carla Dennings cornered him in the hay barn when they were seven and demanded to be his girlfriend.

“Still, spin the bottle is _terrible_,” Clark had snorted, and Bruce had pushed him off the bench seat they were on.

Most of the time, it’s a pleasant conversation between them. Very rarely do they talk about things close to heart. It’s not that Bruce doesn’t want to, it’s just he’s hesitant to open up to _anyone_. Clark asks him questions about his parents sometimes, but Bruce pretends like he doesn’t hear him. Thankfully, Clark doesn’t seem offended by it, and Bruce tries to brush it off as himself being closed off.

He tries not to think that, of all the people, Clark _is_ the one he wants to open up too.

“Best childhood memory?” Clark asks Bruce as they walk down the same slope that Clark had originally found Bruce on one morning. The dogs are a jumbled mess in front of them, their leads all wrapped up together which creates a haphazard mess for Bruce and Clark to try and figure out as they crunch through the snow.

Bruce has to think about that one for a moment, breathing out and watching it curl up into mist in front of him. Surprisingly, there are quite a few memories, and he smiles at Clark when he thinks of one _special_ one.

“The first time my mother took me to feed the ducks,” he answers, and Clark raises his eyebrows down at him, clearly asking for elaboration. “There was this lake that she loved, an hour or so walk from the Wayne Manor, that we use to go to for picnics. My father would march us through the forest and tell us stories about bears hiding and looking for honey.”

“Like Winnie the Pooh?” Clark asks with laughter in his voice.

Bruce nods. “Mother used to read Winnie the Pooh to me every night,” he says before continuing. “We’d march down to the lake and Alfred would set up a picnic for us. All of us,” he adds a bit hastily, not wanting Clark to think they’d leave Alfred out. “One time the ducks had just come back from their migration, and Mother took me down to the lake with a paper bag full of grapes.” He smiles. “She didn’t even care about her dress as she pulled me out into the water and we stood as still as we could possibly be. When the ducks finally came up to us, we could just reach out and feed them grapes from the palms of our hands.”

“Sounds peaceful,” Clark murmurs, and Bruce nods.

“It was,” he agrees. He glances away from the dogs in front of them as he nudges Clark with his shoulder. “You?”

Clark doesn’t answer right away, and Bruce is surprised to see such a dark cloud pass over Clark’s face so suddenly. He didn’t think it would be a question that would garner that kind of reaction but it clearly is as Clark scowls at the ground.

“Do you ever look back and think that your childhood would’ve been more peaceful if you weren’t there?” he asks rather abruptly, and Bruce is shocked into silence at the violent response. Clark doesn’t seem to be through though as he shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “my childhood was the best I could ask for, but my parents struggled because of me.”

Bruce doesn’t quite know what to say. “Clark…” he tries but trails off vainly as Clark huffs and glares over at Bruce.

“If they hadn’t found _me_ then they might’ve been happier, you know?” he snaps, anger laced through his words. “They might’ve lived a happy life without their weird little alien baby to look after and ruin-” 

“Why do you think so low of yourself?” Bruce can’t help but ask suddenly, cutting in before Clark can start a tirade that’s obviously rising. He’s hesitant to look up in case he’s crossed the line, but the question _has_ been brewing for a long time, bubbling beneath the surface as he’d watched Clark for weeks now. He’s not used to seeing slumped shoulders and a man with a heavy heart. 

Clark is supposed to be happy, carefree. His smile should light up the room without a second thought, but that doesn’t happen here in the past as often as it does in the future.

It’s only when he hears the lack of crunching snow beside him that Bruce pauses and looks back. Clark stands behind him, mouth thin and eyes narrow as he watches Bruce.

“You know me,” he states firmly. “In the future, you know who or what I become. Isn’t it obvious?”

Bruce thinks of Clark, striking in his Superman suit, his eyes bright and his smile big, the people surrounding him, _loving_ him, for the hero he is. He thinks of the Clark in overly baggy clothes, a shyness to his step, a determination to know the truth and the _power_ to fix the wrongs. Clark, with a heart bigger than his chest will ever be able to contain.

“No,” he agrees honestly. “It isn’t.”

It seems to flummox Clark for a moment as he stares at Bruce with wide eyes. “It… it isn’t?” he asks, innocent and small. Bruce gives him a tight smile and shakes his head.

“No,” he repeats. “You’re a good person, Clark. Now and in the future. You’ve always been a good person.”

Clark lets out a shaky breath as he glances away. “I’m a freak,” he contradicts, widening his arms as if displaying himself. “I’m a literal alien. I shoot lasers from my eyes and can hear things I shouldn’t. I never fitted in with anyone because of how much of a _mutant_ I was. Kids use to bully me and their parents bullied mine and it was all because of how much of a fre-”

“Stop,” Bruce interrupts, taking a step back towards him, dropping the leads in his hand. “Clark, you’re not-”

“I killed my father,” he snaps though, ignoring Bruce. “Did you know that? Did future me ever tell you that? I _killed_ my father.”

Bruce can see it, the ugly beast of guilt crawling into Clark’s eyes as he too drops the leashes he’s holding and wraps his arms around himself. Bruce knows that Clark harbours guilt over his father’s death. He remembers a late-night conversation over the plans of the manor before it was rebuilt, when Clark quietly told Bruce the story of his father’s death as they sat in the remnants of Bruce’s own parent’s legacy, although Bruce had never realised just how _bad_ that guilt used to be.

“You didn’t kill your father,” Bruce says calmly. He glances away for just a brief moment to see, thankfully, that the dogs are just sitting quietly nearby instead of tearing off into the bush, and Bruce ignores them as he takes another step forward. “You didn’t, Clark. I know you didn’t.” 

“Were you there?” Clark asks, and he doesn’t sound angry, just _small_. “You weren’t, Bruce. I could’ve saved him, and if future me has told you anything then you _know_ I could’ve saved him.” He looks away, eyes watery as he looks out over the trees around them. “And I didn’t. I should’ve, and I didn’t. I let him die because he… I should’ve ignored him and just…” Clark trails off, a hand coming up to cover his face as his shoulders shake.

Bruce has never been good at reassuring someone. His attempts in the past have always fallen flat, but this time he tries and thinks of how he would like to be comforted. Sometimes, all he’s ever wanted was quiet word and a gentle touch, and he glances at the four dogs waiting patiently around them then he holds his breath and steps into Clark’s space. With unsure hands, he reaches up and pulls Clark’s hand away from his face before he cups Clark’s cheeks with his warm, gloved hands. They’re soft on Clark’s cheeks, and Bruce can see tiny drops of tears clinging to Clark’s eyelashes as Clark hesitantly looks at him.

“No,” Bruce agrees quietly. “You didn’t save him. But that wasn’t _your_ choice.”

Clark squeezes his eyes shut. “It was-” he starts to murmur, but Bruce moves a thumb to press against Clark’s lips, the other reaching up to wipe a stray tear.

“It was your father’s choice,” Bruce says firmly. “And it was his to make. But it wasn’t fair on you, it was _never_ going to be fair on you. You weren’t ready for the world, Clark, and you still aren’t. One day you will be, and your father knew that when he made his choice.”

“Will I?” Clark asks, almost desperately as he opens his eyes and Bruce _knows_ he shouldn’t say anything because of this damn time travel business, but he can’t help it as he smiles softly at Clark.

“You will,” Bruce reaffirms. “And it will be beautiful when you are.”

Clark doesn’t look away from him, teary eyes locking with Bruce’s. His hands come up to wrap around Bruce’s wrists, warm and tight, and Bruce doesn’t flinch away when Clark gives him a small tug and pulls him into a hug. It’s for Clark’s sake, Bruce knows that, so he doesn’t move away as Clark presses his face into the curve of Bruce’s neck and lets out a shuddering breath.

He holds Clark in unsure arms, a hand pressed flat against the wide expanse between Clark’s shoulders and the other twisting gloved fingers between Clark’s damp hair. Bruce barely breaths as he feels Clark shake against him, and he closes his eyes and thinks that this what he’s always wanted himself. Someone to just wrap him away from the world for just a moment and tell him it’s going to be _okay_.

The snuffling of a nose into the back of Bruce’s knee has him startling though after Clark’s tears have long since dried, and he looks down to see Balto watching them both with a strangely inquisitive look, something Bruce never thought a canine would be capable of.

Clark seems to have spotted him as well though as he pulls out of their embrace and takes a few steps back, wiping at his face roughly with his coarse sleeve. He doesn’t look at Bruce as he gathers the four leads, all still exactly where they’d been dropped, and he hands two to Bruce as he gives him a shy smile.

“Thank you,” he says honestly, and Bruce raises his eyebrows. “I haven’t… I haven’t spoken about that in a long time.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it just… overflows.”

Bruce is terrible with words, he knows that. Instead, he transfers over both leads to one hand and reaches out awkwardly to take one of Clark’s, twining their fingers together and giving it a silent squeeze. Clark glances down briefly, but Bruce is already looking away as he tugs Clark and the dogs onwards.

He doesn’t let go as they continue their walk, ignoring the burning in his cheeks as Clark’s holds his hand back almost tight enough to be painful, but if it keeps that damn smile on Clark’s lips then Bruce will hold his hand for as long as possible.

And he’ll ignore the thumping of his heart and hope that Clark doesn’t hear it too.

…

The musher gets better and eventually departs.

He leaves two dogs behind. There’s only enough room in the truck heading to town for two of the dogs, and Bruce lingers beside the musher as he gives a tearful goodbye to Balto and Jenna. He’s coming back to pick them up in a few weeks, but it’s still a long time for a musher to be separated from his dogs.

Bruce has continued to keep them as agreed by the council. He’d been in the back of the meeting hall assisting with dinner prep when the council leader had called out to him. Bruce doesn’t mind really, he likes the dogs and they’re good company when Clark is busy. Bruce does normally like his own space and time by himself, but he’s getting used to the constant companionship now and finds that he actually enjoys it. 

Now, he stands with his arms full of leads and bowls for the two malamutes as the musher climbs into the cab of the ute. The two dogs don’t seem overly fazed as they watch the truck drive away, and they obediently fall in behind Bruce has he starts to crunch his way over the snow back home. 

He manages to step through the door before the two dogs squeeze past him into the warmth of the cabin. Clark has his back to him where he stands at a counter, but he obviously picks up on the obnoxious panting and claws clicking on the wooden floor as he turns around with wide eyes and immediately drops into a crouch in front of the malamutes.

Bruce rolls his eyes as he hears Clark descend into a sort of baby talk. He kicks the door shut behind him and drops the load of dog things he’s brought back with him onto the counter beside the doorway before he starts to shuck his jacket and scarf. It doesn’t look like Clark has intentions on coming up for air as he lavishes attention on the two pups.

Bruce swats at their tails as they whip against his leg, and he huffs loud enough to get Clark’s sort-of attention. “Their musher just left,” he explains as Clark glances at him before grinning as Balto gives Clark’s cheek a daring lick. “He couldn’t take these two so we’ve got dog sitting duty until he can come back.”

“How long is that?” Clark asks as he scratches both malamutes under the chin, eyes bright as he coos at them.

“Not too sure,” Bruce responds as he shuffles past the fluffy masses to get into the lounge. The fire is roaring and Bruce thinks they might need a grate in case the dogs get a bit too close to the open flames. “Their musher said he’ll be back in a few days but it looks like we’re in for a huge snowfall in the coming week that might delay traffic until it’s cleared.”

Clark hums his acknowledgement before he pats both dogs on the back and stands up. “Elliot,” he says as he turns back to the counter.

Bruce blinks at him. “Elliot?” he repeats.

“The musher’s name,” Clark elaborates with raises eyebrows. “Elliot.”

“Oh.” Bruce doesn’t really know what else to say. It’s been acknowledged between them that he’s terrible with names, especially since he can’t remember anyone in the village and it’s been at least a month by now, but it’s a little strange to be reminded of it. Bruce doesn’t think he’s this bad in the future? Maybe he’s being influenced by young him’s inability to remember things on a biological level? Not that Bruce thinks that’s even a thing, but it’s an explanation for it.

In any case, it doesn’t matter. He’s getting by fine since most of the village doesn’t remember his name either. He’s normally known as “outsider” or “Clark’s friend” which doesn’t bother him at all.

Clark has gone back to dicing up something on a cutting board when Bruce stops mulling things over. The malamutes are sitting by the doorway looking a little confused, if dogs can look confused, so Bruce whistles them over. They quickly respond, and Jenna curls up near the fireplace while Balto squishes himself between the coffee table and couch to drop his head on Bruce’s foot.

“Cute,” Clark comments with a smile, and Bruce waves him off. 

He reaches over to pick up his book from on top of the coffee table, The Hobbit this time. It’s unfortunate that most of the books that the couple before them have left behind are mostly ones that Bruce has read before. There’s a phenomenal amount of blank books on the bookshelf though, and Bruce wonders if one of them was a writer as well considering how many there are. Clark tends to read the same books as Bruce does, and Bruce _knows_ it’s so that they can discuss them together. It’s awfully endearing.

He’s cracked through a few chapters before Clark appears to sit down beside him. He’s got two plates full of steaming stir-fry, and Bruce happily bookmarks where he’s read to before chucking it on the table and accepting the plate offered to him.

“It’s Mamma’s speciality,” Clark says and he kisses his fingertips and tosses them away. Bruce rolls his eyes as he spears a piece of beef, but smiles as he chews at the delicious flavour.

“Bellissimo,” he replies, and Clark grins before he too digs in. They eat in silence, trying to ignore both dogs as they watch them with hungry eyes. They’re good dogs, but Bruce can tell they’ve been spoilt by their musher, and he caves as he steals a piece of meat off of Clark’s plate and one off his own before holding them out for the dogs to eat.

“I was talking to one of the drivers about you today,” Clark starts up conversationally. Bruce turns to him with raised eyebrows, but Clark just gives him a small smile back. “He was asking how long you intend on staying for.”

Bruce purses his lips and drops his gaze back to the plate in front of him. “What did you tell him?” he asks uncertainly. Clark huffs and leans back into the sofa, unsettling the cushions.

“That you hadn’t decided yet,” Clark muses. “There’s not much else I can say. We don’t _know_ how long you’ll be here.”

They don’t. Bruce knows that. Each day he waits for some sort of sign that he’s going to be pulled out of here, but each day _nothing_ happens. He wonders at times if there’s something he should be doing, but he knows enough about the time weapon that Luthor had used on him to know that there’s _nothing_ he can do from where he is. He’s still sticking to the rules that he and Clark had laid out, trying not to mess with the timelines too much, although it’s still _hard_ to try and avoid all the topics on the list that’s still lying on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce awkwardly says, keeping his eyes downcast. “I didn’t anticipate that I would still be here-”

“Oh, Bruce,” Clark interrupts, reaching out to catch Bruce’s wrist and squeeze it reassuringly. “You know I have no problems with you being here. None at all.”

Bruce glances up to see Clark smiling brightly at him, and Bruce ducks his head back down in embarrassment. He doesn’t quite know how to continue the conversation, so he settles for gathering both of their finished plates and heading to the kitchen. He drops them in the sink and takes a deep breath, trying to gather himself again.

Something has been off since their conversation about their parents the other day, or maybe even since their tramp to the lake, and Bruce knows it’s mainly because of his own awkwardness. Since admitting to himself that there _might_ be some feelings bubbling away in him for Clark, he’s not been able to even _look_ at the man without pausing to consider Clark’s sharp jawline, the curl of his hair, the light in his eyes. It’s _nauseating_, but Bruce can’t stop himself from idly thinking such sickly sweet thoughts, and the memory of Clark warm in his arms has him flushing a brilliant red. 

Part of him wants to just _indulge_ in those feelings though. After all, Clark is a handsome man and a genuinely good person. Bruce could and _has_ found worse people to show affection for. On the other hand, though, he knows that whatever he does in the past now _could_ affect the future when he returns. He still doesn’t have a clue how this whole situation is going to affect the future, whether not at all as it would happen in a fixed timeline, or completely change the future as in a dynamic timeline, or even if he splits off and creates a multiverse timeline through his actions. All three give him a headache to think about, but what makes it worse is if this whole mess is part of a time travel theory that doesn’t even_ exist_.

But then _none_ of that pales in comparison to the fact that sure, Bruce may have feelings for Clark now that are a little hard to keep in check, but Clark doesn’t feel the same way. Bruce _knows_ that. Hell, Clark loves Lois Lane in the future, and they have even _dated_. Not just once either, but both before and after his death at the hands of Doomsday, and Diana herself has said they’ll undoubtedly end up together again soon. Bruce doesn’t stand a damn chance in the future, even if he _may_ give himself the slight benefit of the doubt here in the past.

“So?”

He jumps when Clark speaks up right behind him, and he glances back to see Clark approaching with genuinely concerned eyes. It irritates Bruce, but not truly. More just a passing vexation that Clark is clearly such a damn good person that he actually _cares_ about Bruce when he’s having a subtle crisis in the kitchen over the running water in the sink.

“So?” he repeats distractedly, turning his head back to the soapy water and shuts off the tap. He starts to clean the dishes, his shoulders tensing when Clark picks up the tea towel from the countertop. It’s normal for them to do this in the evenings, Bruce just needs to get a grip.

“You didn’t hear me before, did you?” Clark asks as he takes the clean plate from Bruce’s hand before it hits the dish rack. “About going down to the town?”

Bruce frowns. “No,” he admits. Clark snorts and hip checks him gently to get his full attention.

“The driver I was talking to today said that they’re looking at going down for the monthly supply run in a couple of days,” he tells Bruce. “He said we could join them for a change of scenery. It might cost us some baking though.”

“… baking?” Bruce repeats in disbelief, and Clark’s grin is slightly goofy as he reaches for the next plate in Bruce’s hand.

“I made my grandmother’s recipe for brownies the first night I was here,” he says as he dries the dish. Bruce has stopped washing them as he watches Clark. “I was nervous and the village was a bit unfriendly. They don’t really approve of outsiders, as you know.”

Bruce does know. Even now, over a month into staying here, they’re all still a bit suspicious around him. Hell, Clark has been here for over a year, and they’re still a bit narrow-eyed and hesitant around him.

“They loved them,” Clark places the clean plate on top of the first one and crosses his arms as he leans back against the counter. He’s smiling as he looks down at Bruce. “My mother has always said to create good baking you have to add that little bit extra of love to make it truly delicious.” He shakes his head. “Sounds corny, I know, but it broke that barrier down and they’ve been pleasant to me ever since.” Clark reaches out for the two forks lying on the rack. “So, do you want to go?”

“To town?”

Clark rolls his eyes. “Yes, silly,” he chides gently. “To town. With me. I thought we could spend some time together?” When Bruce looks up, he’s surprised to see a small flush on Clark’s cheeks. “I mean, you know, we could look at the papers and see if there’s anything about you missing in Gotham. Just to see if we can get any hints on this situation.”

Bruce stares as Clark drops his gaze and focuses hard on drying the forks in his hands. It’s oddly endearing seeing him all flustered. Bruce does remember hearing stories from Clark in the future about how he didn’t have many friends back when he was younger and he never quite knew how to be casual when inviting people to just hang out. It makes Bruce’s chest ache, and he gives Clark a small smile

“So you’re going to make more then?” Bruce asks, lips quirking a little more when Clark smiles back even brighter. “A bit of bribery to get us on this trip south?” 

“Absolutely,” Clark says cheerfully. “Unless you don’t like brownies, then we can make something else?”

Bruce can’t look away from Clark’s intense stare. He doesn’t actually know if he likes brownies. He hasn’t eaten sweet food in a long time, especially not baked goods. Alfred is a fantastic cook, but with baking, he’s always had a tendency to pour more flour than needed and mix the sugar with salt. Bruce himself has never been good either way.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he decides as he breaks their gaze to continue washing the dishes. “I think the last sweet food I had was a ginger slice at my cousin’s wedding.”

“You’re not a sweet tooth?” Clark asks as he nudges back in beside Bruce. He’s much too close, his elbow bumping into Bruce’s side each time he moves his arm, but Bruce doesn’t push him away.

“Never really had the opportunity,” Bruce muses.

“That’s tragic,” Clark states, and Bruce glances up to see how shocked Clark looks. “That’s genuinely tragic, Bruce. We’re going to change that.”

Bruce nearly laughs. “You can’t just _make_ someone a sweet tooth, Clark,” he says with a smile. “Not even with sheer will power.”

“Like that’s going to stop me,” Clark jokes as he nudges Bruce again, but this time Bruce nudges back just as hard. It surprises a laugh out of Clark, and he reaches down into the sink and makes Bruce’s yelp as he flicks water up into Bruce’s face.

“Oi!” Bruce scolds as he slaps Clark’s hand away, and Clark just _laughs_ and _laughs._

_…_

Unsurprisingly, they don’t have the ingredients _to_ make the brownies that Clark had already promised the drivers.

Bruce thinks Clark is ridiculous as he searches the cupboards like a burglar, pulling everything out into messy piles on the countertops. It goes to show how much he’s really _used_ this cabin since he arrived here, and Bruce sits on one of the countertops watching him with raised eyebrows as Balto and Jenna nose in around Clark’s elbows to sniff into the cupboards themselves. Between Clark and the dogs, the place is a frightful mess within minutes.

“You know, you could just go and _get_ the ingredients,” Bruce points out with amusement as Clark looks despairingly into a bag of flour that has barely a cup left. “The kitchens are open and since we’re going to get more supplies, you could probably take some of what’s left.”

“Stop being so smug,” Clark scolds him as he hits one of Bruce’s ankles with the basically empty bag. It leaves a patch of white powder on his pants. “I’m not usually this disorganised.” 

Bruce thinks of Clark in the future, thinks of his messy room back at the Kent Farm, the disaster he makes in the kitchen of the League Manor whenever he volunteers to cook for anyone, and even just his _section_ of the team table whenever they have meetings that becomes piled high with papers and tablets within moments.

“Yes, you are,” Bruce murmurs, smiling softly down at the back of Clark’s head. He gets a rude gesture thrown up at him in response, but it just makes Bruce laugh.

Eventually, Clark admits defeat and decides to head down to the kitchen to see if the ingredients are in stock, calling the cook through the walkie talkie system that’s in each cabin. Bruce helps him along by gathering up their coats and shoving Clark’s at him and ignores his grumbling in response. The two dogs also appear by the doorway expectantly, and Bruce clicks them onto their leashes before he pushes outside and waits for Clark to join them.

Together, they mosey down to the meeting hut. It’s not far away at all, and the dogs bounce cheerfully around them. Bruce scolds them when they twist their leads around both him and Clark, crashing them together as they walk, but it’s mainly from embarrassment. He blames the flush on his cheeks on the cold air instead of the tingling in his hands from where they had been pushed against Clark’s chest.

By the time they get around the back of the hut to see the back kitchen door is open, the dogs have twined around the two of them enough times that they’re nearly pressed completely up against one another’s sides. Clark’s arm has come around at some point to wrap around Bruce’s waist, and Bruce is _actively_ trying not to think about it as he fights against the two _extremely_ dynamic dogs.

“No wonder they’re good sledge dogs,” Clark laughs as he tries to extract them again but fails, his arm tightening around Bruce’s waist as they get pushed together by Balto’s hard tug on the lead. “They’ve got way too much energy.”

Bruce’s laugh is cut off just as Jenna bumps her nose into the back of his legs and has him stumbling into Clark’s chest. Once again, he feels his ears start to burn and his cheeks turn red, especially when Clark’s hand comes up to grip his shoulder as he glances down. He’d never quite realised how slight the height difference between them is as their noses bump just when Bruce looks up in turn.

They freeze where they stand, the leads wrapped around their knees and Clark’s arms around Bruce. They share the air between them, Bruce’s own hitching as he drops his eyes to look at Clark’s lips, and Clark starts to lean in…

“Clark! There you are!”

The voice of the cook shocks them out of the moment, and they pull away to see her leaning out the back door and grinning at them. Bruce quickly tries to step away, only to trip on the leads around their legs and drop backwards straight into the snow. Clark lets out a yelp as he tries to catch Bruce, but he manages to stay on his feet as he steps back and promptly _breaks _the leads.

Thankfully neither of the dogs disappear as they both move to hover over Bruce while he sinks into the snow. He’s soaked to the bone in seconds, and he grudgingly accepts Clark’s hands as he’s frantically pulled to his feet.

“Oh shit,” Clark swears, causing one of Bruce’s eyebrows to raise. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Bruce mutters as he wipes the snow off himself. He glances up to see the cook watching them with her hand over her mouth and laughter in her eyes. Glaring at her doesn’t change that, it seems to just make her laugh more.

“I have your ingredients,” she says though when Bruce has managed to wipe all the snow off himself with Clark’s help and he’s just left standing wet and cold. “Mind giving me a hand serving lunch first though?”

Clark looks at Bruce, obviously torn, but Bruce reaches over and pats his arm reassuringly. “Go on,” he urges through his chattering teeth. “I’ll head home and get warm. Meet you when you’re back?”

Clark still seems reluctant but he does go when Bruce pats his shoulder. He disappears into the kitchen after the cook, and Bruce calls the two dogs to his side. They are a lot better behaved as they head back towards their cabin, undoubtedly preferring to be off-lead, but they do bound off towards the tree line as Bruce treks through the snow.

He’s stopped halfway back though by one of the older women in the village as she passes by him, clearly making her way to the meeting hut for her own lunch. Bruce thinks she’s just going to walk by, especially when he recognises that it’s the woman that’s been suspicious of Bruce since the beginning when he first arrived. It doesn’t help that he can’t remember her name at all, but it’s not like she remembers his. She refers to him gruffly as “outsider”, snapping the title when he sits with the older women at their knitting and sewing group.

But stop she does. He hesitates to pause himself with how cold he is, but ignoring her isn’t really an option. He trails to a halt beside her and he’s not quite prepared for her words.

“You are a long way from home,” the woman barks harshly and Bruce glances up to see her watching him with narrow eyes. “When will you return?”

He opens his mouth but promptly closes it as he tries to think of an answer. He doesn’t know, not a clue. He’s still not sure when he’s suddenly going to be pulled out of this timeline and back into his own. Luthor didn’t exactly give him an explanation before zapping him with that blasted time weapon.

“I’m not sure,” he eventually settles on saying. “My friends will be coming to get me soon, but I haven’t heard from them when.”

Her eyes still remain narrow and suspicious as she looks at him. All of her weight is on the wooden walking stick in her hand, her gnarled old hand curved over the top. Bruce drops his gaze to look at it, refusing to meet her eyes, and he yelps when she lifts it up and jabs him in the thigh.

“You do not belong here,” she tells him suddenly, and he flinches in surprise as he rubs his sore leg. “You are not _meant_ to be here.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he protests, but he feels fear crawling up his back. There’s no way she would _know_ about him, about his true circumstances. She must just think he’s a stranger encroaching on her village. That _has_ to be it.

But she shakes her head as she glowers at him. “Do not think me naive, outsider,” she practically barks. “And neither are you. _You_ know you don’t belong here.” She glances over her shoulder to where the dogs have just appeared back at the tree line and are heading towards them. “You are unbalancing the universe being here. The world is not fit to hold the two of you.”

He doesn’t know how to reply, just holds his tongue and tries to process what she’s saying.

“One must go soon,” she tells him forcefully, stepping closer to him. “Balance must be restored.”

“But-”

“You care for him?” she demands, gesturing vaguely at the cabin behind him. “Do you _truly_ care for him?”

If he were speechless before, it’s nothing compared to now. The sudden roar of feelings is answer enough for her, the warmth in his veins and the breathlessness in his chest. He thinks of Clark, quiet and unassuming, his smile bright and his laughter heart-stopping. It makes Bruce’s chest ache as he thinks of being with him, just as they are, without the romance and the complications. Being just _Bruce_ and _Clark_ out here where there’s no one to get between them, no world to save and no team to lead. It’s just them.

It’s just _them_.

“I do,” he admits quietly, his breath creating wisps of mist that curl up into the air. “I do care for him.”

“Then you must go,” she tells him sternly. She pauses before she steps forward to place a hand against Bruce’s chest. “You may have one body and one name,” she says, “but there are two souls in you, outsider. One does not belong here. It must go home.”

“But what if it doesn’t want to go home?” Bruce asks her, awkward in his words as they surprisingly slip out. Her eyes are hard as they watch him, tracking his every move as he shifts his weight on his feet and raises a hand to move hers away. He aborts the move at the last second though before he takes a deep breath. “What if it wants to stay here?”

She softens for a fraction of a second as her gaze darts to the door behind him. “If it is meant to be, then it will be,” she tells him. “A body cannot carry two souls, not when they are so different.”

“But they’re both mine,” Bruce points out, losing the ambiguity they’ve been working with. She may not know about the time travel, but she knows something is wrong. There’s no point in skirting around the topic when they can speak plainly.

She regards him for a long moment, long enough that Bruce starts to feel chills up and down his spine and both the malamutes come bounding back. They sit at Bruce’s feet, Balto leaning against his leg, and the old woman takes them in as well before she finally answers.

“In name and body, yes,” she agrees. “But one is a young dog waiting to grow into himself. The other…” she trails off as she presses her hand harder against his chest. “The older dog is tired. Tired of fighting, tired of being alone. The older dog wants the life the younger one _could_ have, but it’s not possible to have it here.”

She pulls away from him and gathers her lantern again. It’s will be needed soon as the midday sun starts to slope under the trees, the days still just as short as when he arrived, and Bruce knows that Clark will be back soon.

“The old dog must go home,” she tells him once again. “Perhaps he may be surprised.”

Without waiting for his response, she steps away from him and starts to continue her walk once more. Bruce watches her go for a short moment, watching as she treks through the snow with the wooden walking stick held tightly in her hand, and he feels the words bubbling in his mouth before he speaks them.

“How did you know?” he calls out to her, and she pauses briefly to look back over her shoulder with raised eyebrows.

Bruce jumps at the sudden sound of an eagle cawing loudly as it glides down past the trees and soars just over the older woman’s head. His eyes fall to the eagle pattern on her poncho as it drapes down her back in a long weave and the wood-carved eagle tiki that sits around her neck is eye-catching and bright for just a _moment_. 

“The spirits do not deal in coincidence, Bruce Wayne,” she says, eyes pointedly looking at the two dogs sitting at his side. “Everything happens for a purpose. You would do well to remember that.”

With that, she walks away. Bruce follows her with his eyes for a long time, but eventually, the freezing cold wind gets through his soaked clothes to chill him and he turns on the porch to enter the cabin. The dogs are still pressed to his side and they don’t leave, even as he crashes through the cabin into the bedroom to shed the frigid clothes covering him.

Of course, being by himself, he can’t help but focus on what the woman said. It sits heavy in his chest. He knows she’s right. He’s not sure about the whole universe unbalancing thing, but he _knows_ this is wrong. He stopped thinking about the effects that his presence is having a long time ago. In fact, he’s not bothered to really wonder at _all_ what is happening around him now.

He came to the conclusion that _maybe_ this was a bastardised fixed timeline at the very beginning, but since then he’s just not really cared to look into it. He knows it’s because no matter _what_ he does or thinks, nothing will change. There’s nothing that he can do from this side of the time weapon, it’s all up to his team to pull him out, but considering its nearly two months down the line and there’s been no change, Bruce isn’t holding out as much hope as he was.

To be fair, he doesn’t know what the time differences are like. Maybe it’s been a matter of hours or a handful of days for his team. He hopes that’s the case and that it’s not been two months for them and they’re _still_ at a loss of pulling him out of this time. Victor and Barry _alone_ are the smartest people that Bruce has ever encountered, and that’s not including Diana, Arthur, or Clark. Together, the five of them _must_ be able to work things out?

But then comes the never-ending question, the one that’d slipped out as the old woman had stared at him. Does he want to go home? Does he _want_ to be pulled back into the future?

By the time Clark comes back with two paper bags filled with ingredients, Bruce has argued every which way about this whole mess and come to not a single conclusion. The dogs look a bit shell-shocked from taking the brunt of Bruce’s meanderings, and Clark raises his eyebrow as he walks in to see Bruce sitting on the sofa with his arms crossed.

“Anjij said she’d bumped into you,” he mentions as he drops the paper bags on the counter and gives Bruce a small smile. “Still recovering?”

“Of sorts,” Bruce mutters, and Clark laughs.

“Come on,” he says as he walks over and hauls Bruce to his feet, Bruce trying to ignore the tingling in his hands as Clark wraps his own around them. “We’ve got baking to do.”

They start in silence. Bruce sets about sifting the dry ingredients while Clark starts to whisk the butter, oil, and sugar. The kitchenette is too small for both of them, but they make it work as they squeeze past and around one another until they fall into an easy rhythm.

It’s when Bruce starts to pour the batter into the greased tray that Clark breaks it. He sticks a finger into the gushing batter and coats its before shoving it in his mouth. Bruce pauses to glare at him in distaste as Clark grins at him.

“The boys are gonna love it,” Clark cheers through his smile. There’s a little bit of chocolate batter on his front tooth. “Give it a taste, Bruce.”

Bruce scowls at him. “The batter isn’t for _eating_, Clark,” he scolds before he starts to pour again.

Clark pouts at him before he sticks his finger back under the flow of batter and Bruce growls as he yanks the bowl away. He accidentally tips batter onto the bench-top, and he glares at the mess like it’s personally offended him while Clark lets out a delighted laugh as he sucks his finger again.

“Lighten up,” he grins around his finger. “Try some. It’s _delicious_.”

Bruce continues to glare at the batter on the bench-top before he puts the bowl down and reaches out to swipe his hand through the mess. Without skipping a beat, he turns to Clark and slaps his hand on Clark’s cheek with a wet _splat_, leaving a chocolate handprint behind.

Clark blinks at him blankly for a moment, long enough for Bruce to wipe his hand off on the front of Clark’s flour stained shirt, before he lets out a growl and sticks his hand into the batter in the greased pan.

Bruce doesn’t have time to object before Clark’s hand smacks into his face, not hurting but _disgustingly_ wet as he smears brownie batter all over his nose and cheeks. Bruce lets out a strangled noise before he pushes Clark’s hand away and reaches for the still opened flour container and gathers a handful to throw at Clark.

It gets worse from there. Clark lets out an irritated noise before he’s reaching for the abandoned bowl of batter, and Bruce tries to back away with the flour in hand. He throws fistfuls of the powder at Clark as he advances forward, battered covered hands waving in the air dangerously close to Bruce’s face, and they both squawk and yelp as they _cover_ each other in the absolute _mess_ of ingredients.

Bruce’s hips connect with the counter behind him though, preventing him from moving back any further, and Clark _grins_ as he tosses the bowl on top of the stove and steps forward with his battered hands. Bruce yelps and drops the whole container of flour on the ground as he throws up his arms to block Clark, but it does nothing and Clark presses forward and smears his hands all over Bruce’s cheeks.

“No,” Bruce can’t help but laugh as he bats at Clark’s hands. “Stop!”

Clark is laughing too, his hands moving up from Bruce’s cheeks to thread into his hair and Bruce _knows_ it’s going to be a disaster to try and wash the sticky batter out. He grips Clark’s wrists tightly and tries to pull them away, but Clark is too strong as he slides his hands down the back of Bruce’s head.

It’s only when Bruce looks up and realises how close Clark is that the air between them suddenly runs out again. Their noses are almost touching, and Bruce’s breath hitches as Clark’s grin slowly changes into something _softer_, softer like before in front of the kitchens, and Bruce realises there’s nothing to stop them this time.

“Bruce…” Clark murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, and Bruce’s eyes slip shut as Clark closes the distance between them.

His lips are gentle as they press against Bruce’s, sweet from the batter, warm and soft to the touch. Bruce’s hands loosen on Clark’s wrists as he presses back, keeping the kiss only chaste, but it’s enough for Bruce to feel a hot wave crash over him.

They pull back from each other with a small sound, and Bruce keeps his eyes tightly closed as one of Clark’s hands move to trail his thumb down Bruce’s cheek. The touch is gentle enough to leave Bruce’s knees weak, and he lets out a small gasp before his eyes flutter open.

The look on Clark’s face is so soft, and he smiles just _slightly_, and Bruce can’t help but smile back.

…

Waking up the following morning is a different experience.

Bruce hadn’t been shocked at all when he found out that Clark tends to rise and fall alongside the sun. Up at the very break of dawn, leaving Bruce to often wake up to a cold and neatly made other side of the bed, and Clark often retires hours before Bruce does the same.

It makes it easy sharing the bed since they never really interact around it. Bruce had wondered if Clark was ever going to get around to finding the spare cot for Bruce to sleep on, but weeks down the line it’s obvious that it’s either slipped his mind or this sleeping arrangement doesn’t bother Clark at all.

It certainly doesn’t bother Bruce.

But this is the first time he wakes up to see that Clark is still here. He can feel him curled against his back, one of Clark’s arms draped lazily over his hips and his nose pressed between Bruce’s shoulders. It nearly makes Bruce startle at the strange feeling, normally use to waking in bed alone, but after a few moments of adjusting he ends up sinking back into Clark’s hold and reaching down to cover the hand on his hip.

“Morning,” Clark murmurs behind him, his hand flipping to hold Bruce’s.

Bruce’s breath catches for a second before he smiles softly. “Morning, Clark,” he mumbles back before he stretches and rolls over. Clark pushes back just enough to give him space but keeps his arm over Bruce’s hip. When Bruce faces him, its to see Clark has the warmest smile on his face.

“If this is going to be a regular thing, I think I’m going to like it,” Clark says, and Bruce rolls his eyes and pushes at Clark’s chest.

“It’s too early to be sickly sweet,” Bruce scolds as the tips of his ears heat up. “We’re not going to faff about like teenagers. I refuse to murmur sweet nothings to one another.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clark laughs, shaking his head minutely. “Only insults and rudeness in the morning,”

“Exactly,” Bruce agrees, but he can feel his mouth starting to break out into a smile. “Nothing about the way the sun reflects in your eyes.”

“Or the shine of your effortlessly tousled hair.”

“Only foul morning breath.”

“And boogers in your nose.”

Abruptly, Bruce bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he does so. “Okay,” he manages to get out, “that’s _too_ much.”

Clark is laughing too, his grin bright and eyes genuinely shining. Bruce thinks he may have been falling for Clark before, but it’s nothing to how he feels right now. In complete and utter honesty, he thinks his chest might burst in a moment, but he’ll _never_ say that aloud. It just gets worse though when Clark leans forward and kisses him, morning breath and all, and Bruce trails a hand up to sit on Clark’s perfectly cut jaw and strokes a thumb over his sharp cheekbones.

Eventually, they do get up. Bruce could swap lazy kisses with Clark all morning if he could, but they need to get going if they’re going to make it to the trucks in time for their ride into town. Part of Bruce is a little excited. Hopefully, there will be tabloids of some sort down there and he might be able to get some clues and ideas on how his presence up here in the mountains is affecting the rest of the world and the timelines, but he’s not holding out the _highest_ of hopes for answers.

The other part of him doesn’t want them at all.

As Clark wanders out early to deliver the baking to the drivers, Bruce bundles up the two dogs with their spare leads and doggy bag full of food and treats. The cook has offered to take care of them during their excursion instead of leaving them locked up in the cabin and Bruce had happily taken her up on it. The dogs do look a little confused, Balto nudging his head against Bruce’s hand as he steers them out the door and Jenna doesn’t leave his side as they walk through the village.

Admittedly, Bruce has been giving some focus to the old woman’s words. He guesses that she’d been telling him in some roundabout way that his spirit animal must be a dog, but he doesn’t know what that means. A quick glance through the books on the bookshelf back at the cabin showed that it doesn’t hold anything about the spirit animals either which is a little frustrating.

The cook is happy to see him and is excited when Bruce hands over a small container of Clark’s brownies, even more so than she is when she sees the dogs. They exchange a few pleasantries, keeping it vague as Bruce _still_ can’t remember her name despite all this time here, but it doesn’t escape his notice that she doesn’t say his. It must be the mountain air that makes them all forgetful.

By the time that he gets to the trucks, Clark is waiting as he pulls Bruce up into the cab onto a large bench seat. There’s four of them in there, the two drivers just give Bruce a nod in hello, but there’s plenty of room for them all. Even so, he doesn’t protest in the slightest when Clark tugs him right up against him.

The trip goes by quietly. Bruce drops into a doze on Clark’s shoulder as Clark converses with the other two men. It’s not much of anything, and Bruce just listens to the sound of Clark’s voice humming in his chest and lets himself soak in the feel of Clark’s arm around his waist.

He’s not stupid, this can’t last forever. Hell, he’s even more worried now about heading back into the future. If Clark _does_ end up remembering all of this, he wonders just how he’s going to react? 

Bruce doesn’t know if he wants to find out.

The town is just as quaint and small as Clark has described. There’s a grocer, two pubs, a library come book and post shop, a petrol station, and a hardware store. That’s it. Bruce looks to see if there’s more, but besides the houses of the locals, there’s nothing else.

He gets out of the truck with Clark before the drivers take it around the back of the hardware shop. The second truck will head to the grocers to gather up the food supplies, and they’re being given roughly an hour to do what they will before assistance will be needed to haul the larger purchases. Bruce knows that Clark could do it himself, but he does try to keep a lid on his superpowers even if he doesn’t know the full extent of them yet.

“So,” Clark says as he catches Bruce’s hand to hold and starts to pull him towards the library. “Tabloids first? Let’s see if there’s any news on the missing Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce admits he’s curious too and when they get to the outside of the shop, he doesn’t hesitate in stepping forward to pull the first magazine out of the magazine racks on the sidewalk. He’s actually not surprised to see there’s nothing on him as he passes over page after page. There’s something about Lex Luthor and his father in Miami, an article about Harvey Dent, an add for the latest ‘ivy’ perfume that Bruce _knows_ is something that Poison Ivy is promoting.

There’s nothing about him though, and Clark leans over with another magazine that has a simple “Bruce Wayne could not be reached for comment at this time” at the bottom of an article about the latest stock drop, which clearly doesn’t help. He’s _never_ commented on stock drops.

“Well, at least we can rule out there’s no panic about your disappearance?” Clark offers, and Bruce huffs as he tips the tabloid from Clark’s hands and shoves them back into their holders roughly.

“But it doesn’t tell us anything else,” Bruce mutters darkly. He _is_ pissed off. He’d hoped that there would at the very least be some clues coming down here in the town, but so far that hope is being dashed. The tabloids were their best bet, but it’s come up with nothing.

“Look, don’t panic,” Clark tries to reassure Bruce as he reaches out to grip both of his shoulders and give him a little shake. He pauses as someone exits the shop behind them, and Clark pushes Bruce back a couple of steps away from the front door of the shop. “We’ll work this all out. You’re not doing any harm _being_ here from what I can see.”

“It’s the future we have to worry about, Clark,” Bruce tells him crossly. “Sure, nothing _seems_ to be affected here, but what about what happens in the _future_?” He pushes away from Clark to grab the tabloid back out that has the perfume ad in it. He shakes it at Clark. “What could happen if I’m not here to _fix_ this?”

Clark stares at the ad for a long moment before he frowns. “It’s for men’s perfume, Bruce,” he says slowly and carefully. “Why would you stop the production of a _perfume_?”

“Because it’s not perfume!” Bruce hisses, trying to keep his voice down but the anger he feels is almost uncontrollable. “It’s a poison created by Poison Ivy for men that she sells at a high price for a limited time to entice the men who run the conglomerates to buy it! I’m supposed to stop her and I _did_ this year in April. That’s only three months away! What happens now? I can’t just leave here to go and fix and potentially create a paradox-”

“Bruce,” Clark interrupts, his grip on Bruce’s shoulders almost painful. “Bruce, why would you be the one stopping it?”

“Because I’m Batman!” he very nearly shouts, and he freezes the moment the words are out of his mouth, eyes searching to make sure no one is around to hear him. Clark’s own mouth drops open and his hands go slack on Bruce’s shoulders, and Bruce winces at the surprise that crosses over Clark’s face.

“You’re…” he starts to mumble but trails off, and Bruce pushes his hands away completely.

“Yes,” Bruce confirms, dropping his voice back down to a murmur. “I’m Batman.” He glances away from Clark as he puts the tabloid back and crosses his arms. “I couldn’t tell you. It was too risky considering we know each other in the future. What happens _in_ the future happens _because_ you don’t know who I am."

“What do you mean what happens?” Clark asks. “You sound ominous.”

Of course, he does. What happens between them _isn’t _pleasant and if Bruce could stop it from happening without potentially creating a paradox or disrupting the future completely then he _would_. But it has to happen the way it does. The League wouldn’t get together any other way. The brief war with Superman is what draws the rest of the team out, starting with Diana.

“I can’t tell you,” Bruce mutters. “You know that, Clark.”

“Why not?” he demands. “You’ve just let slip that you’re Batman. If anything that we’re doing is going to change the timeline, this will definitely be it.”

He’s right but that doesn’t _mean_ Bruce couldn’t fuck it up more. He looks at Clark helpless as he shrugs. “I can’t risk more,” he mutters. “If I could tell you I would, but it has to be like this.”

Clark watches him with a blank gaze for a long moment. Surprisingly, all Bruce can hear in the back of his head is the old woman from the village demanding he should go, that he’s unbalancing the universe where he is. He gets what she meant. Being here is just a risk to change the future, to unbalance it. For the first time, he desperately wishes this is a fixed timeline where anything he does now _doesn’t_ affect the future.

Where the _hell_ is the team right when he needs them?

He’s jumped from his thoughts when Clark lets out a sigh and moves in close to Bruce. A gentle press of his lips to Bruce’s forehead nearly has him choke out a sob just with the sheer _despair_ he’s feeling, and he reaches out to wrap his arms around Clark’s waist as he’s pulled into a tight hug.

“Okay,” Clark murmurs into his ear. “Okay, Bruce.”

It’s enough of a promise to let him be, and Bruce pushes his face into Clark’s chest as he tries to let out a breath that doesn’t shudder. It’s hard, the panic of the moment really having settled into his bones, but Clark’s hand on the back of his head is strong and reassuring. It will be okay. It _has_ to be.

Eventually, they do break apart and Clark guides him towards one of the pubs along the main road. They get a booth in the back and Clark buys them both a lager to drink. Bruce feels terrible to say that he’s not had something as common as _lager_ in years, but Clark nudges it towards him and laughs when Bruce’s first sip ends up with a moustache of froth on his top lip.

It breaks the tension between them, and Bruce starts to relax more as Clark blatantly skirts any and every conversation to do with the future like normal and carries on a usual conversation between them.

In fact, he settles on telling stories about Martha and Jonathan Kent. It’s very rare for Clark to bring up his father, the rawness of his death still so fresh, but Clark easily starts to recite stories from when he was younger. Bruce laughs as Clark recaps the time he was only two and the dog wouldn’t come to his baby attempts at a whistle, so instead he’d carried the large sheepdog into the house all by himself. His father had been shocked but his mother had simply laughed in delight. Then there’s the story of how Martha’s sister had appeared in town, the one she’d not particularly liked for her snobbiness, and a ten-year-old Clark had managed to scare the absolute _wits_ out of her when he’d picked up her car with one hand to collect a snail for his farm. She’d not come back after that, and Clark had been showered with his favourite lasagna every day for a solid week.

It’s enough to distract them both, and Bruce delights in hearing the stories. Clark isn’t as open in the future, more reserved from his experiences, so he takes these precious moments to hear more than he should. 

After an hour or so, they leave for Clark to head back to the trucks and start to pack the larger loads with the others. It leaves Bruce to his own devices, and he’s just wandering down the main lane of the town to peer at the freshly baked bread outside the grocers when he feels a hand on his elbow and he’s being tugged down the alley between the grocers and second pub.

Without hesitation, he lets himself be pulled until they’re out of sight before he turns around and grabs the stranger by the back of their neck, pulls his arm from their grasp, and slams them against the wall. The noise the other makes is familiar though, and despite the unusual hair on his head, Bruce would recognise Lex Luthor anywhere.

“What the hell,” he snaps as he twists Luthor around to press his arm against his throat as he shoves him back against the wall. “The hell are you doing here, Luthor?”

He forgets for a second that maybe this isn’t the Luthor that he’s used to dealing with in the future, but he’s not stupid. The Luthor from this year is supposed to be in Miami with his father. He wouldn’t be all the way out here in Alaska, and there’s just something in those eyes that’s more malicious than what Bruce has ever seen when Luthor was this age. 

This is _definitely_ the Luthor from the future.

“Huh, you’re not as dumb as you let people think,” Luthor drones as he reaches up and gives Bruce’s arm at his throat a hard tug. It does nothing, Bruce still stronger than him at their young ages, but he does drop the arm. He still keeps his hand held tightly on Luthor’s shoulder though, not willing to let that go.

“What are you doing here?” Bruce asks again, this time through gritted teeth. Luthor just watches him for a long moment before he sighs and dusts himself off. He’s wearing an ill-fitting suit, definitely not meant for this weather, so Bruce can assume he only just got here if he’s not found anything else to wear. He’s holding a paper bag with the logo of the library down the way on it. That makes Bruce’s eyes narrow, but he still waits to see what Luthor is going to say.

“Your team sent me,” Luthor explains. He’s not been one for gloating or monologuing _too_ much which Bruce has always appreciated. “After all, I’m the one who created and has _used_ the time weapon. Sending one of those dimwits would’ve just spelt disaster. That Arthur of yours has no sense of decorum.”

“Sent you to do what?”

Luthor smiles at him, twisted and not all at suitable for his young face. “Find you, of course. It’s time to bring you back.”

The ground nearly drops out from under Bruce for a moment as his stomach falls in one fell swoop. He knew this was going to happen eventually, knew he was going to be pulled back, but he didn’t think anyone would be coming to get him. He thought it would just happen and he’d suddenly wake up in his real body with the team all blinking down at him.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting this?” Luthor mocks as he tilts his head to the side. “You can’t stay here forever, Wayne. You’ve already been in here for two days. Any more than three will open up a paradox and you won’t like the results of that.”

Well, at least now he’s got a timeframe to work with. One month here is equivalent to a day on the other side. It doesn’t come as a relief, but at least now he knows that his team haven’t been sitting by idly for months.

“I don’t understand,” Bruce admits. It’s an ugly feeling that blooms inside him at saying such a thing to Luthor, but he _doesn’t_ understand. 

“You’re missing from Gotham right now, don’t you know that?” Luthor asks, getting Bruce’s attention back. He quirks his head to the side before he sighs. “You can’t just be here and in Gotham at the same time. There can’t be two of you. You’ve been transported here, it’s why we don’t go back in time to when we _exist_, Wayne. We go to a time when we didn’t. Pre-birth, we don’t _exist_. It means we can bring our current body with us.” He crosses his arms and pins Bruce with a hard look. “But in a time we _do_ exist? We simply take the body of the time we’re in, no matter where in the world we are. And when we leave, our body returns back to our younger conscience.”

“But what happens to our younger selves?” Bruce asks, gesturing at themselves

“Nothing,” Luthor sighs with a wave of his hand. “When you come back to your real-time, your body will just be back in Gotham like _that_.” He snaps his fingers together. “Your younger self will come too, will have the memories that he should have instead of the ones you’re making now, and everything will continue as it once did.” Luthor smiles. “It’s all rather simple really. We insert ourselves into a brief period of time and change it for ourselves only. You personally will have two memories that work concurrently as the time weapon creates a barrier inside you to allow the memories to exist beside one another simultaneously. What you really were doing, and what you’ve just done.” He winces. “Unfortunately, you’re not meant to be around someone you know in _both_ timelines, so Clark Kent will also have this new memory alongside his actual memory but he won’t have the provided barrier from the time weapon.”

“Won’t that drive him mad?” Bruce asks, narrowing his eyes. Luthor’s own light up though.

“Well, it was an interesting thing to try and figure out,” he says excitedly with waving hands. “It took some time to put the equations and practicalities together. He _will_ have those two different memories, but I’ve found a way to make the memories foggy, as if someone has come along and smeared the memories together so they barely make sense from one another. It’ll save his sanity, although that does displease me a little.” He settles, his hands dropping to his sides. “The rest of the people though, the ones you were meant to really be interacting with, will have only the one strand of memories. While you are here, they will have continued on in the vein as if you are with them instead. You’ve disappeared from Gotham but someone will make two cups of tea, but one won’t be drunk. Your butler will drive to an event, but no one will get out of the car. It won’t worry them though besides a fleeting thought. That’s why you’re not in the papers listed as missing.”

“So, when I come back to our time, everything will just go back to how it was?” Bruce tries to sum up. Luthor watches him with narrowed eyes. “The only impact I would’ve left would be on Clark and my own memories?”

Luthor purses his lips but nods. “That’s about it,” he agrees. “The people in that charming village you’re in will forget about you. The people in Gotham will forget you were ever missing. It’ll be like none of this ever happened.” He smirks. “Even to dear Clark Kent, this will be just a faint memory. _Nothing_ will change.” He shrugs. “Call it a fixed timeline of a sorts. Unless we cross over three days, _nothing_ will be different. Cross over the three-day limit though, and you will cease to exist.”

“Cease to exist?” Bruce repeats in alarm. “Why would I cease to exist?”

“Not _you_ exactly,” Luthor snaps with a roll of his eyes. “Come three days and your body will return back to where it was. Your younger self will come back, you will continue as you would if you were to return, but,” he pauses and steps forward to tap Bruce’s forehead, “this conscience? The one from the future? It will disappear. It’ll be erased. The time weapon will fix its own paradox by destroying the thing causing it. You won’t return back to your body.” He smirks again, this time even more malicious than before. “You’ll die, Wayne. It’s as simple as that.”

Bruce shakes his head, trying not to let those words sink in and hurt the way Luthor is intending them to. It’s complicated but makes a sort of sense. “How does this ever benefit you?” he demands, and Luthor narrows his eyes. “How have you dealt with having two memories?”

“As I said,” he says, although his voice is a bit slow as if he’s trying to break it down to Bruce, “we’re not supposed to go back to a time we exist. We can’t have two separate memories of a time we didn’t _exist_. I’ve been back to only two points of time, both to acquire certain things for my experiments, and both times I didn’t know a single person.” He purses his lips and looks a bit pained for a moment. “Difficult, of course. I couldn’t retain their names, but I made it work.”

“Retain their names?” Bruce asks, a sense of dread filling his stomach.

Luthor smiles at him, twisted and smug. “Don’t be stupid, Wayne,” he scoffs. “You must’ve noticed by now that you can’t remember anyone’s names.” He shakes his head. “You can’t pick up knowledge from the past. You go back _only_ with what you already know.” Luthor reaches into the bag in his hand and pulls out a book. It’s completely blank, just an orangish colour with a red blur on the front, and Bruce frowns at it. “_Harlequin_,” Luthor reads out as he holds up the book. “By Bernard Cornwell. Recognise it?”

Of course, Bruce doesn’t, and he glares as Luthor waves it in his face.

“I just bought it from that shop down the road,” he elaborates, gesturing vaguely in the area of the library. “I read it two years ago, but it was just released in this time a few days ago. I know the book, I’ve read the book, so I can _see_ the book.” He narrows his eyes. “Get what I mean, Wayne?”

Bruce does. _That’s_ why he’s struggled for so long trying to remember the village people’s names. He wonders briefly how he’s able to remember the names of the dogs, but nearly laughs as he remembers the movie he’d watched in his early twenties.

“Balto,” he mutters, shaking his head and reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He huffs out a sigh before he looks up at Luthor. “Why did you send me here?”

Luthor raises his eyebrows. “I only chose the date. You chose the place.” 

“No,” Bruce responds with a frown. “No, I didn’t.”

Luthor rolls his eyes and shoves his book back into the bag. “The machine focuses on your thoughts and sends you to the closest place to them,” he explains with annoyance. “You were either thinking of Alaska or something else, weren’t you?” The implication in his tone makes Bruce’s eyes narrow and Luthor grins. “Of course, it wasn’t Alaska at all, was it?” 

“Shut up,” Bruce snaps, but Luthor just laughs.

“Oh dear,” he snorts sarcastically. “Oh, this _is_ rich. Have you always been in love with him or did this fun trip of yours just seal the deal?” 

Bruce lets out a growl as he surges forward once again and pushes his arm against Luthor’s throat, hard enough that Luthor lets go of the bag in his hand and reaches up with both hands to grip Bruce’s arm tightly. “Enough,” Bruce hisses as he leans his weight forward and Luthor’s fingernails start to scratch through the material of Bruce’s coat.

“It’s a shame he won’t remember much of this,” Luthor spits out, vocal enough as Bruce forcefully restrains himself from cutting off the airflow to Luthor completely. “Not that it matters. Isn’t he with that reporter? I’m sure they are the desired couple over Gotham’s playboy and Metropolis’s sweetheart.”

“Stop talking,” Bruce snarls as he leans completely on his arm, cutting off Luthor’s air. It obviously surprises him as his eyes go wide and his grip tightens. “Just _stop talking_.”

It’s only when Luthor’s eyes are too wide and his mouth opens in a silent cry that Bruce pushes back away from him. Luthor drops to the ground on his knees, scrabbling at his throat as he coughs into the snow, and Bruce closes his eyes as he tries to get a grip on his temper. Luthor is his way out. He can’t hurt him no matter how much the need to do so is singing in his veins.

“Maybe I could do you a deal,” Luthor coughs as he remains in the snow. Bruce turns to look down at him to see Luthor red-cheeked but still smirking. “Maybe I could go back and tell your team that I didn’t exactly find you. I don’t personally need to be with you to pull you out, only need to know your rough location. Perhaps I could give you a few more hours here to just tie things up.”

“And why would you do that?” Bruce snaps. Luthor lets out another round of coughs before he slowly gets to his feet, his teeth chattering with the cold of his soaked clothing.

“For love?” he offers mockingly, putting his hands up in surrender when Bruce takes a threatening step forward. “Fine. For the time weapon.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “For the time weapon,” he repeats slowly.

Luthor squints at him. “Yes, the time weapon, that’s what I said,” he retorts with a roll of his eyes. “Do keep up.”

“And why the hell would I give you the time weapon?” Bruce demands. Luthor crosses his arms, probably trying to keep warm, as he steps forward into Bruce’s space.

“Because if you give me the time weapon, I’ll let you stay here just that little bit longer.” He sighs. “I could offer to keep Clark Kent’s memories as they are, but I’m afraid he _would_ go quite mad and while that’s good for my own personal gain, I don’t trust that lovely woman in your team to not cave my head in at the first sign of it.”

Bruce doesn’t answer straight away. He can feel something in his chest clawing to get out, the selfish desire to accept Luthor’s offer. Especially knowing now that Clark won’t remember any of this, that when Bruce wakes up in the future and looks at Clark’s face he won’t see what he so desperately wants to see. But in accepting this he will be running the chance of Luthor getting hold of the time weapon once again, and it was so difficult to get it from him the first time.

But, just for a moment, he pauses and thinks about his life so far. _Everything_ has been about being Batman since the moment he took up the mantel. Relationships of all kinds have fallen by the wayside, opportunities lost in the process, attempts at maybe some form of happiness _gone_ just to be the Batman.

This is just another one of those moments where he’s ready to make the sacrifice needed to be Batman, but for the first time in his life, Bruce stops to think about himself. To think about what he _wants_.

It feels wrong, wanting to stay, wanting to deny going back with Luthor to his team when he knows that Clark is right here. Right here and _his_. He knows that he’s running the risk of ruining the time continuum just by staying a moment longer, but the thought of waking up beside Clark again tomorrow far outweighs the knowledge that if he goes with Luthor, that won’t happen.

Luthor is giving him an opportunity, something that Bruce is repulsed by and even more so by the feeling in his chest that’s yearning for him to _take_ it. Take it, for once, just _take_ the opportunity to be happy. Even if it is only for a few stolen fragile moments.

It’s more than he’ll ever get when he goes back.

“Chop chop,” Luthor calls, making Bruce glare at him as he’s ripped from his thoughts. “I’ve only got a handful of minutes before they pull me back. You need to make a decision.”

The pressure is horrid, and Bruce can hear the ugly monster of _need_ that’s crawling in his chest, that’s telling him that he’s wanted and loved here and that with only a simple deal he can have it for just that little while longer. But it’s not what’s right, it can’t be whats right, and it’s only because Luthor starts to tisk behind him that the twisted feelings far out shadow the need for his duty and he _caves_.

“Fine,” he mutters, unable to help the feeling that he’s made a deal with the devil as Luthor grins wickedly. “Fine, but under the terms that if we capture it again, I won’t give it to you a second time.”

Luthor nods and sticks out his hand. “Deal,” he agrees, and Bruce bites the inside of his cheek as he reaches out uncomfortably and shakes Luthor’s hand.

It nearly makes him feel sick down to his core, and he pulls his hand away as quickly as he can. Luthor doesn’t seem to care though as he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps back away from Bruce. He leaves the bag with the book in the snow, but Bruce has gathered already that taking things back with you isn’t exactly an option.

“I’ll let your team know to pull you out a little later,” Luthor reassures him with a horrid smile. “They won’t be happy I’m not with you, you know?”

“I know,” Bruce says, and he hopes they give Luthor hell.

Luthor narrows his eyes at him but that smile is still there, and Bruce watches as he checks the watch on his wrist before he lets out a whistle and gives Bruce a stilted wave.

Within a blink, he’s gone, and Bruce is left standing in a cold alleyway wondering how badly he’s fucked up.

…

The entire ride back to the village, Bruce remains silent, even when Clark tries to talk to him.

He knows he shouldn’t be wasting his time by being surly, not when he doesn’t know how long until his team pull him out. He could still be here for a few days or they might not believe Luthor and pull him out within moments.

But he can’t shake the feeling that he’s done something wrong. A part of him is almost desperate for Luthor to come back just so he can go with him, but then he sees the soft looks that Clark keeps sending him and it crumbles the resolve he’s just started to build.

It’s the first time he’s ever felt like this. Completely at the mercy of someone else. No one has ever come close to the feelings that Bruce has for Clark, for this sorry little thing that he may call love. Bruce has never been one to think that he’d ever get to experience it in his life, but yet here he is.

It’s horrifying and exhilarating all at once.

When they get back to their cabin with the new-acquired dogs in tow, Bruce still hasn’t managed to speak to Clark. He doesn’t know what he could possibly say, but it’s without thought that, after he hangs his coat on the hook, he heads straight to the bookcase that stands on the other side of the living room.

He picks one of the books thats blank on the cover and on the inside. He turns it over and over in his hands, wondering if words will ever pop up, but nothing _has _by the time Clark comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. 

“What’s on your mind?” Clark asks as he drops his chin on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce’s grip around the book tightens as he turns it over to where the title on the cover should be.

“What does this say?” he murmurs quietly, dreading the answer. He hopes there isn’t one, hopes that all of this is a fallacy and these books _are_ blank. But that would prove nothing, and Bruce waits for Clark’s answer.

“The _Northern Lights_,” Clark reads out as he reaches around Bruce’s waist to hold the book himself, twisting it to look at the spine. “By Philip Pullman.” He drops the book back into Bruce’s hands. “Why?”

Bruce grits his teeth, looking at the blank expanse of purple, black, and gold. There really is nothing there.

“I can’t see it,” Bruce admits quietly. “I can’t see the words.”

He turns around slowly in Clark’s grip, unable to let go of the book as he does so. Clark looks confused, and rightfully so, and Bruce has to take a deep breath before he begins his story.

He has to leave out Luthor’s name. Knowing now that Clark will have the memories, distorted as they might be, makes him incredibly conscious of the words he’s saying. He talks as if they’ve just met again, vague and unclear, leaving Clark to blink at him blankly and ask obvious questions Bruce doesn’t have the answer too.

When Bruce gets to the part about Clark’s own memories and how they will change, he’s not expecting the violent recoil as Clark pulls completely away from him and steps back across the room, almost tripping over the dogs as they circle around the two of them uneasily. They must know something is wrong as Balto lets out the occasional whine, and it goes to show how upset Clark is when he doesn’t even drop down a hand for the dogs to sniff reassuringly.

He omits the part about the deal, lying just slightly as he says that his team will pull him out soon but he’s not clear when. The hurt in Clark’s eyes just intensifies and Bruce wants to close the distance between them, but he can’t make his legs move and the book is still so firmly gripped by his hand. He just _can’t_, and he can’t help but think that he’s maybe made the wrong decision.

But then Clark is taking a hesitant step forward and he’s gripping Bruce’s elbow. “I know this is selfish,” he says quietly, “but…I need time to think.”

The words aren’t what Bruce is expecting, but they’re not as bad as they could’ve been. He nods his head and drops his gaze and, when Clark presses a kiss to his forehead, he forces himself not to break. He can’t and he won’t and, as the front door closes behind Clark, he lets himself sink to the floor.

He holds the book in his hand tight as the two dogs appear at his side, both settling down and Balto places his head on Bruce’s knee. He feels empty, worn-out and drawn-thin. He doesn’t know what to do next as he lets the purple, black, and gold of the book burns into his eyes.

Finally, though, he runs tired of moping and forces himself to his feet. He drops the book on the coffee table as he makes his way to the kitchen and, methodically, he starts by putting the kettle on top of the stove before moving to the cupboard to begin looking for something to make for dinner. He keeps himself busy, lighting the fire, tidying the surfaces, making the bed, putting the kettle on over and over as he waits for Clark to come back. He leaves out two mugs with a teabag in each, the sugar canister sitting behind Clark’s just waiting for him to come through the door.

When Clark finally does come back through the door a handful of hours later, the kettle needing to be reheated again for the hundredth time, Bruce is sitting in front of the fire and wrestling the two dogs around as he tries to groom them.

He looks up in surprise when the door bangs open, and he’s surprised to see Clark shuck off his coat and not care as he misses the hook and it falls to the ground. Instead of picking it up, he crosses the kitchen and living room to stand in front of Bruce, and Bruce’s eyes fall to the two books clutched in Clark’s hand. He can’t read those either, and he raises an eyebrow as Clark shoos the two dogs away as he sits down beside him.

“I went to town,” Clark announces, and if Bruce didn’t know that Clark _does_ use his super-speed than his second eyebrow would join the first, “and I bought the other two books.”

Bruce frowns. “Other two books?” he asks hesitantly, and Clark reaches behind him to nab the purple, black, and gold book from off the coffee table. One of the books in his hand is a bright green with some brown on it, and the other is orange and gold.

“From the _His Dark Materials_ trilogy,” Clark clarifies. Bruce is still confused as he waits for Clark to continue, and Clark lets out a huff. “You can’t read these,” he points out in an exaggerated tone. “So I’m going to read them to you.”

Bruce suddenly gets it and he winces. “Clark…” he starts to say, hesitating as he speaks. “This wasn’t the point I was trying to make before. This whole book thing was just an example so you could see that-”

“This isn’t your time,” Clark interrupts. “I know. We’ve always known that. But you’re here now and you’re not leaving just yet, so I might as well do some of the things you can’t do _for_ you.” He holds up one of the books. “Like read this damn series to you.”

At Bruce’s blank look, Clark lets out a sigh.

“I’ll admit,” he mumbles quietly, “that I thought these memories with you would stay when you went back to your real-time. I know it’s silly, but a small part of me thought that since we know each other in the future, we would… well, be reunited when you went back?” He shrugs and looks away from Bruce. “I thought that maybe future me was just biding his time to bring it all back up, that he’d have to let you experience this before he could say anything.”

Bruce nearly interrupts but holds back. He knows that Clark doesn’t really think that, he definitely knows that _isn’t_ the case with Clark in the future. He desperately wishes it were, but he’s not naive enough to think that.

“But to know that I will barely remember any of this and whatever _is_ left will be scrubbed away the moment you leave?” Clark huffs and shakes his head. “Bruce, I don’t want that to happen. I wish there were a way I could stop that.” He glances up and his hold on Bruce’s hand is tight. “So instead, I will do _everything_ I can now to make whatever time you have left here the most incredible memory you will keep.” Clark shrugs and gives Bruce a lopsided smile. “Who knows, maybe I will remember it despite everything.”

Bruce shakes his head, fondness bursting in his chest. He knows that’s not possible, but it warms him to think that Clark is so determined anyway.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, Clark Kent,” he murmurs. He still doesn’t know if he’s made the right decisions by making the deal with Luthor, but the smile that Clark is giving him is making him think that it just might be.

“We do the same thing as we have been doing,” Clark says as he reaches out and takes Bruce’s hand. “We stay clear from talk about the future to prevent a paradox.” He brings Bruce’s hand up to kiss the back of it. “But being together _won’t_ create a paradox, will it?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce answers honestly, but Clark smiles again.

“I think if it will, it already would’ve done, and yet here we both sit,” he points out as he lowers Bruce’s hand back to the ground. “I love you, Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce isn’t expecting those words, not at all, and his mouth falls open in shock. Clark doesn’t stop grinning though, just watches Bruce with curious eyes as he nudges Bruce’s knee even as Bruce is expecting to be zapped out of existence. But nothing happens, just the fire crackles and pops in the background and Jenna lets out a loud huff where she lies and _none_ of it changes.

“Nothing has happened,” Clark points out with a small laugh. “Nothing has changed and I still love you, Bruce.” He grins. “Clearly, we’re not a paradox at all.”

“I…” Bruce begins, awkward and stilted, and Clark drops the book in his hand to reach up and cup Bruce’s face.

“Look me in the eyes,” he asks gently, his thumb trailing over Bruce’s cheekbone, “and tell me you don’t love me too, Bruce.”

Bruce does. He looks at Clark, who’s so happy and exhilarated at the moment, and he can’t stop the wave of emotion that crashes over him. “I can’t,” he says, and Clark laughs. Bruce feels his own lips cracking out into a smile, and he shakes his head as Clark’s hand drops from his cheek.

The joy of the moment is overwhelming, and Bruce looks back down at the fire as Clark picks up the book beside him. He keeps a hold of one of Bruce’s hands as he flicks to the first page, clearing his throat before he starts to read aloud.

“Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening Hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen…”

…

Besides the looming threat of being brought home at any time, nothing changes. 

Bruce is more aware now as he navigates the people in the village. He is never going to remember their names and it makes sense why they can’t remember his. It does make it more awkward knowing now, but Clark seems more determined now than ever to start leaving the village. They make trips back down to the lake where Clark had taken him before, often bringing the dogs with them. They trounce and crash through the forest and scare off any wildlife that could’ve approached them, but neither of them really mind.

Every night, Clark reads to Bruce, whether in front of the fire or when they’re curled up together in bed. Bruce finds a lot of peace in those moments as he lies tucked against Clark’s side and just listens. It dissipates all his worries, all the fears of having made the deal with Luthor leaves him as he soaks in the moments with Clark. 

_This_ was the reason that he made the agreement with Luthor, to spend this time with Clark. Knowing he will forget the moment that Bruce leaves this time is a heavy damper on the mood if it gets brought up, but Bruce stomps down any attempts to mention it when it comes to mind.

They end up going back down to the town together. It leads to another evening of baking that ends with Clark sitting Bruce up on the countertops and pressing sweet kisses into his skin. They don’t sleep together, Bruce refuses to go that far as it just feels _wrong_. Clark doesn’t press it, but he does test Bruce’s resolve more than once.

He never tells Clark he loves him. He does, it nearly _burns_ with how much he loves Clark, desperately and completely, but he can never say the words aloud. He can’t let them become true and spoken because while he’ll remember every time Clark’s pressed confessions into his skin, Clark won’t remember a damn thing.

And in the end, Bruce has always been a coward when it comes to love.

The trip to town is a lot more pleasant than the first time. Clark manages to wrangle them a night out instead of just a few hours like last time, and he eagerly pulls Bruce into the bookshop to buy more books. They’d powered through _His Dark Material’s _faster than Bruce thought, and Clark tugs him down the isles as he reads out different series.

“What about _Game of Thrones_?” he asks as he holds up a book with a hideously coloured cover. Bruce can’t see the words which means he’s definitely not read it, but he takes the book and pushes it back onto the shelf with distaste.

“Lets get one that doesn’t make me want to vomit when I look at it,” he mutters as he reaches for a nice brown and golden coloured book. “Like this one.”

Clark bursts out laughing as he takes it from Bruce’s fingers. “_Confessions of an Ugly Step Sister_, huh?”

After the bookshop, where Clark had definitely bought enough books to last them _years_, they head to the pub with a few of the drivers. Bruce still isn’t fond of the lager that Clark gets him again, but after three or four he can’t really taste them anymore.

Despite not remembering their names, he has a good time for once with the villagers that have come down to the town. They’re loud and uproarious, causing good-natured scenes every couple of minutes as the barkeep rolls her eyes. She tells Bruce that they’re like this whenever they do have a booze-up, but they’ve not been that common since the avalanche that decimated the village. Her grin nearly splits her face when they start a bar-wide sing-a-long to some terrible eighties hit on the jukebox tucked away in the corner. Clark wraps an arm around Bruce’s shoulders and pulls him into the middle of the mess, nearly the loudest himself.

After a while, they stumble back to the trucks to head home. Clark drives, still sober but still the loudest, and Bruce sits beside him as the other two in the cab snore against one another. The drive is slow, the convoy not use to driving back at night, but Clark leads the group with a steady grip on the wheel.

His grip on Bruce’s hand is firm the whole time, as it has been for days now. Bruce had been surprised with how often Clark has sought out his hand each time they’re together, but he doesn’t resist when Clark links their fingers together.

Tonight though, he blames the alcohol for his loose tongue.

“Why are you holding my hand so tightly?” he asks quietly as they drive up the hill. The bumps they’ve driven over has interrupted the snores of the other two, but Bruce is sure they’re both definitely asleep.

Clark doesn’t look his way, just squeezes his hand before answering. “To make sure you don’t disappear,” he says.

Bruce frowns, admittedly a little muddled from the alcohol. “I’m not going to disappear, Clark,” he tells him, reaching over with his other hand to cover Clark’s completely. Clark smiles and, when he looks his way, Bruce can see it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You won’t be able to help it.”

It leaves the cab feeling cold, and Bruce doesn’t say a word for the rest of the trip.

As he said, bringing up the circumstance they’re in does put a damper of their moods. By the time they get back to the village, Bruce doesn’t know what to say or do, so he simply leads Clark into their room and curls up beside him in their bed. He feels empty at these times, knowing that the moments he’s stealing now are simply that, _moments_. When he gets pulled back to the future, he won’t have anything like this anymore. Clark won’t remember a thing, Bruce will be alone again, and the world will once more be righted to what it should be.

By morning, Clark’s mood has shifted, and Bruce barely has time to wake up before he’s pulled out of bed and Clark shoves jackets on him to start _another_ nature walk. The snow has started to meltdown, shifting from winter to the beginning of spring as they trail into February, which makes the long treks easier. Clark’s eagerness to get lost in nature always makes Bruce smile, even if it means he’s walking for hours and hours just to see Clark get more brighter as they go.

The musher returns for Balto and Jenna. Bruce is surprisingly sad at watching the two malamutes go. It takes a while for him to be finished with his own goodbyes to the dogs, especially Balto who licks his face with a large wet tongue, and when they’re off down the road on the back of a truck, Bruce feels their absence hard. He sees the old woman from before, the one who told him to leave, watching him with a sharp eagle gaze. He feels her words sitting heavy on his shoulders.

He never tells Clark what the old woman told her. He can’t, terrified it’ll hurt Clark, but it _hurts_ to keep the words secret. But then Clark smiles brilliantly and laughs so clearly and Bruce thinks he can hurt for Clark if it means he gets to see him like this.

But, in the end, no matter how long they pretend like Bruce isn’t going to leave, he inevitably has to go.

It happens one morning. They’re standing in the kitchen together, Bruce pulling mugs down from the cupboards as Clark plasters himself to Bruce’s back. It makes moving around a bit slow, but Bruce won’t move him as Clark presses his nose to the bare skin of Bruce’s neck and tickles Bruce with his breath. The kettle is whistling loudly on the stove and there’s the warmth of the fire flowing through the small cabin.

It feels like _home_.

Clark does pull away from Bruce when the kettle gets too loud, and Bruce steps back as Clark picks it up off the stove to start pouring their tea. He admires the man as he’s done for days now, trailing his eyes over the curve of Clark’s body, watching the light filter in through the window and cast a glow over his ear. He turns his head just slightly, meeting the sun as it reaches for him, and Bruce feels a _wave_ of affection crash over him.

He doesn’t want to go back to the future. He wants to stay here, perfect in this sweet paradise they’ve made.

It’s sudden, the tug in his core. It’s not painful, just deeply uncomfortable and has him reaching down to press his hand hard against stomach as he tries to stifle it. It doesn’t go away though, just tugs again and again until he’s leaning back against the counter in discomfort.

He knows what it is, he’s not stupid. It’s the same pain as before he was sent here, a bookended mirror, and he looks up to see Clark has started humming as he pours out their mugs of tea. A mug that Bruce won’t drink out of ever again.

He nearly speaks out, nearly tries to tell Clark it’s happening, but something stays his tongue. He just takes this moment to watch Clark once more, to burn this image into his mind. He can’t forget how much he loves Clark.

And then the pain becomes excruciating and Bruce is gone.

…

When he wakes up, he knows where he is. 

He wakes gradually, unusual for himself who is normally always heightened with his senses even when asleep. He doesn’t know how the time weapon works with coming out of the past though, so it doesn’t surprise him that his senses are so dulled to need proper waking.

The first sense to come back is, of course, his hearing. There’s a beeping of a machine in the room and the sound of someone breathing. Bruce is too disoriented to know who it is, but he has a feeling it’s probably Diana. The subtle ring in his left ear is back, apparent now after so long with its absence, and it makes a muscle twitch in his jaw from agitation.

He can smell the League Mansion’s make-shift hospital from the first inhale. It has always been a potent mix of disinfectant and motor oil, and he’s always blamed it on Victor. They all know it’s definitely Barry’s fault though for being the leading cause of motor-related incidents. It’s even gotten to the point that there’s a board on one of walls with a tally system on it. 

Bruce wonders if they’ve added any in the last couple of days while he’s been away?

The feeling of touch comes next, and he feels the cotton of the sheets beneath him, a lower thread count to be cost-effective. Sometimes the substances that end up on these sheets ruin them completely. His body is covered in a cheap hospital gown, itchy and cold, something that he’s never been a huge fan of. He can feel the familiar ache from his old left shoulder wound, tugging down his back, and he definitely hadn’t missed the feeling.

His mouth tastes stale as he swallows, wincing at the feel of thick saliva. He’s been out for a while then, easily more than a day. He thinks that in retrospect he should’ve asked Luthor more questions about what it’s like to wake up. He refuses to open his eyes when he feels the wristlet against his skin. It’s a simple design of Victor’s, but any sort of movement will set it off and have the rest of the team crashing through that door. 

For now, he just wants to lie down and deal with what’s happened. His memories are catching up the longer he lies awake, and he feels nauseous as he tries to think back the twenty years he was sent back to. Luthor wasn’t wrong in saying that he would have concurrently memories, both mixing into a horrible mess. He can barely separate the two, the blackout parties from Clark’s warm cabin, the mirth of a faceless woman from Clark’s gentle laughter pressed into his skin. It makes his gut twist and turn and his head throb and, despite not wanting to move, he finds himself lurching upright as a wave of nausea hits him with full force. 

It makes the wristlet go off, the alarm on the wall blearing loud in the room, especially to his sensitive ears. He reaches up to cup them as he fights off the nausea as it rips up the back of his throat, and he hangs his head and squeezes his eyes painfully shut.

There are hands on him instantly, large warm ones that rub his back, and he’s sure he can hear soothing noise through his hands. It’s obviously not Diana that’s been sitting beside his bed, and he peeks just out from under his eyelashes to see Clark looking down at him in worry.

“Hey now,” he says as he catches Bruce’s eye. “Take it slow, okay? Your body’s had a huge shock.”

He can say that again as Bruce closes his eyes against another wave of nausea. It’s like his body is screaming at him, punishing him for the time travel that’s clearly has left a rather large effect. Most of it’s in his head as it feels ready to just _explode_, the agony crawling down the back of his neck and all through his bones.

He feels a pinch in his hand, and he opens his eyes in surprise to see the machine that’s been beeping is the IV line that's feeding into his veins. Clark is hovering over it, and Bruce sees that’s he’s added a syringe of some medication into the drip, most likely an anti-nausea or analgesic. The relief is almost instantaneous, the nausea slowly creeping away to be replaced by a cool wave of calm.

“Thank you,” Bruce manages to get out before the door to his right slams open and the rest of the team come flooding in.

Unfortunately, they’re all talking at once. Arthur is gesturing incredibly violently as he heads towards them, Barry is already hovering over Bruce and has a slightly blurry outline from all the head twitches he’s doing, Diana stands at the foot of his bed with a large grin on her face as she reaches down to grip one of his ankles, and _thankfully_, Victor is the only one who seems to be quiet as he stands at the back of the room and just gives Bruce a slow nod.

“-worried we weren’t going to get you out in one piece,” Arthur is basically yelling over top of the others. “Why would you run away from Luthor like that-”

“Because Luthor is a _bad_ _guy_, moron,” Barry shoots back at him, suddenly zipping across the room to get in Arthur’s face.

“But that doesn’t mean he should’ve _run away from him-_”

“Oh yeah? What would _you_ have done if Black Manta was suddenly in your face and dragging you around-”

“I would stand my ground and-” 

“Enough,” Diana demands loudly, reaching behind herself to push Barry away from Arthur. The room falls silent, the only noises left are the beeping machine and their breathing, Barry and Arthur’s louder than the rest. Bruce is thankful. His splitting head had started to ramp up again with the arguing, but the silence is nearly as effective of a pain killer as whatever Clark had put in his IV.

He glances around at them all, lingering briefly on Clark before breaking their gaze harshly. There’s no sort of hidden recognition there, although Bruce doesn’t quite know what he’s expecting. They’re all the same, all mutually worried and probably all just a little pissed off. Clark isn’t different at all.

“You got me back,” he finally says into the silence, his throat a little raspy and sore. He must’ve been out for quite a while with how unused his voice is. “Thank you.”

“You scared us,” Diana gently scolds him as she squeezes his ankle. “We were worried that we wouldn’t be able to pull you out after Luthor came back. The weapon malfunctioned and Luthor wasn’t in a state to be able to help us fix it.”

Bruce frowns. “Why did it malfunction?” he asks.

“It was set to bring back two,” Victor answers as he moves across to stand beside Diana at the foot of the bed. “Bringing back one overloaded the system due to excess power. We only had a few hours to fix it and it was one hell of a struggle.”

“But you’re here!” Barry says cheerfully, back to leaning over Bruce’s righthand side. “And you seem to be in one piece! Luthor did say you were going to have a hell of a headache after waking up though. Not surprising. I don’t think any human brain is designed to cope with being messed around to the extent yours has been. Luthor was only in there for a matter of hours and was out for a whole day trying to recover.”

“You’ve been out for four,” Arthur points out gruffly. “We were starting to think you weren’t going to wake up.”

Four days plus the three he was in the time weapon. No wonder Bruce has such a dry mouth and one hell of a headache. He hesitates to think back to anything that happens, but gives into the need to try. Immediately, his head starts to split again at the attempt to think past being zapped with the time weapon, and he pressed his palms into his eyes to try relieve the overwhelming pressure behind them.

“Do you remember much?”

The question is from Clark and makes Bruce freeze where he sits. He wasn’t expecting the question so soon, nor from Clark. Maybe Diana would ask and Barry would undoubtedly niggle him later, but _Clark_? Slowly, he glances up to see Clark looking down at him with a worried look.

“I will,” Bruce settles on. “Not right now though. Trying to think back past being hit by the weapon is too painful.”

“A normal human can’t exactly cope with having concurrent memories,” Diana explains, but Bruce doesn’t look away from Clark who, surprisingly, looks crestfallen. He chooses not to think about it too much as he looks back over at Diana. “Even with the aid of the time weapon, you have a _lot_ of memories that will run alongside one another. Almost three months worth if Luthor is to be believed.” she continues. “It’s going to take a lot of time to recover from that.”

“We could knock you back out,” Victor offers, and Bruce nearly smiles when he hears the groans from Diana and Barry. Clearly they’re _not_ in favour of that option. “It will give your brain time to adjust without causing too many adverse effects to you. Maybe a week tops?”

Losing another week does _not_ sound appealing to Bruce, and he slowly shakes his head. It hurts to do so, his brain protesting at the movement, but he refuses to go back under. “I’ll be fine,” he says, not entirely sure if it’s true. 

Diana smiles. “Good,” she concludes. “We’ll leave you to it then. Get some sleep and we’ll talk again when you wake.” She gives him a satisfied nod before she shoots a look at the others. Barry says something a bit too fast for Bruce to catch before he darts out the door, Victor gives another stoic nod before he follows, and Arthur raises a hand before he too disappears.

Diana reaches out to grab Clark’s arm, but Bruce can’t stop himself from speaking up. “Can I please talk to Clark privately?” he asks awkwardly, especially when both look at him with surprised faces. “Just for a moment.”

There’s a tense pause before Diana nods her head and gives Clark a meaningful look. She sweeps from the room, leaving them staring at each other in silence. Now that they’re alone, Bruce finds he actually doesn’t know where to start, and he drops his gaze to his lap as he folds his hands together.

“Bruce?”

At his prompting, Bruce takes a deep breath before he glances up to see Clark hovering right beside him. He barely looks different, Bruce realises. Sure, he’s aged, but not by much. There are laugh lines around his face, probably from all that damn smiling he does, and his eyes are still just as warm and kind. There’s even the same perfect curl to his hair and sharp jawline, and whatever thoughts Bruce had about managing to cope in the future without Clark is long gone in seconds.

“How are you?” Bruce asks eventually, and Clark frowns. He waves a hand at Clark’s shoulder, remembering the kryptonite that had been there before Bruce was zapped. “Have there been any side effects from the kryptonite?”

Clark looks unsettled before he gestures at the bed. Bruce nods his assent and Clark perches on the edge of it with his back against Bruce’s knees. “I’m fine,” he says, a little stilted, but Bruce thinks that’s fine given the circumstances. “Diana fixed me up after we got back here. It’s taken a couple of days but the kryptonite worked its way out of my bloodstream pretty quick.” He smiles at Bruce. “Arthur’s Atlantian technology probably prevented it from doing too much damage.”

Bruce nods. “That’s good,” he says, a little awkward as he looks down at his hands. “And your… I can’t remember much, but I know that Luthor had to do something to your mind so you could cope with the concurrent memories yourself.” He glances up. “How are you after that?”

“Maybe a slight headache, but overall I’m fine.” Clark gives Bruce a shy smile as he answers. “Whatever Luthor did took a while, but all the fog is gone.”

That hits Bruce a little hard. As he said, he can’t remember very much at the moment, all the memories just a little too far out of his reach behind a wall of pain, but he _does_ remember that Luthor was going to essentially smear Clark’s memories to be barely recognisable.

To know that there’s no fog at all means he’s clearly done his job well. The Clark in front of him doesn’t have a damn clue about what happened twenty years ago, and the ache in Bruce’s chest has _nothing_ to do with the effects of the time weapon.

“Good,” Bruce mutters, his voice small. He clears his throat as he nods. “Good, I’m glad it’s worked like that. I wouldn’t have wanted to cause any unnecessary harm to you through my own actions.”

Clark frowns again. “Bruce-” he starts to say, but Bruce waves him off.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he interrupts briskly, refusing to meet Clark’s eyes. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I think Diana was right. Some rest will be good for me.” The smile on his face is the most fake smile he’s ever give. “Thank you, Clark.”

It’s a dismissal if there ever were one, and Clark pauses on Bruce’s bed for a long moment before he gets up. Bruce refuses to look at and watch him, just sits with his eyes on his lap and twisted-together fingers, and he listens as Clark seems to fuss about the room before he finally leaves.

The moment the door clicks shut, Bruce sucks in a huge breath and grips his head tightly between his hands. The feelings in his chest are overwhelming, some that he can’t understand with how twisted and messed together they all are. It’s devastating and daunting and he stifles a cry as it bubbles up his throat.

He needs rest, he knows that. He can feel in his bones how tired he is, undoubtedly helped along by the medication still dripping through his IV line and, with a heavy sigh, he leans back against his pillows. He glances over to where Clark must’ve been sat for at least a short while, but pauses when he sees a book on the side table.

He squints at the book. It’s a mix of purple, black, and gold, and it takes him a moment to read the spine for the title with how battered it is. It’s clearly been loved and read for a long time, and he reaches out to trace the letters he _can_ make out.

_Dank rials_.

Something in the back of his head is ringing, determined to let Bruce know that this book _is_ familiar, but for some reason he just can’t quite place it as his head stings with shooting pain when he tries.

He’ll think about it later, he decides, and he gives the book one last look before he closes his eyes and falls asleep.

…

Bruce doesn’t end up staying in the manor’s medical bay for much longer as Alfred appears.

He’s in complete mother hen mode as he shakes Bruce awake, ignoring Bruce’s groggy attempts to fend him off as he packs Bruce’s things. It’s only the Batsuit neatly folded on top of one of the drawers at the back of the room and his collection of battle equipment that the team must’ve gathered when they were changing him into the neat hospital gown he’s wearing. Thankfully, Alfred has brought a change of clothes with him that he helps Bruce into. It’s surprising how much more human he feels wearing just a pair of shirts and trousers.

“Come along,” Alfred says as he does a final sweep. “Your room is all ready for you back at the lake-house, Master Bruce. You’ll be much more comfortable there.”

Bruce readily agrees, and he’s just tugging on his boots when the book on the side table catches his eye. It’s not his book, its probably Clark’s from when he was sitting at Bruce’s bedside, but its not like anyone has come back for it. He reaches out to pick it up, still confused as to _how_ it’s familiar, and drops it into the bag that Alfred has brought with him.

He bids the team farewell as they leave the Manor. Diana doesn’t look too thrilled that he’s leaving, but he does reassure them that he’ll only be down the road. It’s not too far to come and visit and, even though Bruce’s normal policy is to avoid visitors, they at least seem _okay_ with that option.

By the time he does get home though, he realises that there’s nothing more welcome than his own bed as he crawls in under the blankets and promptly drifts off to sleep, his brain too tired and sore to really keep up with anything more.

His recovery does take an astoundingly long time. Victor was nearly right with his estimation on how long they’d have to comatose him. For a solid week, he does nothing but sleep, and when he’s not sleeping he’s gritting his teeth through whatever Alfred tries to feed him.

“Brain food,” Alfred informs him as he tries to force an abomination of fatty fish and broccoli down Bruce’s throat. “You need it to give your head a boost.”

“I’d rather starve,” Bruce tells him haughtily, but doesn’t live up to it. Begrudgingly, he does manage to chew through the horrid meals, although it means he’s quite nearly _ecstatic_ when Alfred brings in large mugs of coffee. Finding out that it’s also considered to be good brain food is the best news Bruce has heard all week.

His team do come and visit him. At first individually, Alfred refusing to let more than one person in at a time. He’s too tried to entertain them for too long, and Barry’s general energy is a lot to take in when his brain isn’t working at full power, so they’re cut short more than once. Arthur manages to grit out a few insults before being shuffled from the room and Diana laces her fingers through his hair and smiles sweetly.

Clark’s visits are the shortest. Whether its because Bruce can’t look him in the eye or Clark just feels awkward, Bruce doesn’t know, but each time that Clark leaves the room he can’t help but look up with what feels like a heartbroken gaze. He hates it, hates that he can’t remember much about what happened besides Clark being there and falling in love with him and some nights it has him seething in self-hatred.

“You know, I know what it’s like,” Diana tells him one evening as she sits on the edge of his bed and looks out at the lakeside. She’s been here for a while now, well over the time limit that Alfred had put down, but Bruce finds it easy to doze and relax in her presence.

Not as easy as it was with Clark, he can remember that much. It makes his chest ache with loss.

“Know what what is like?” he asks her, his eyes still closed where he lies behind her. He hears her sigh before a hand settles on his knee to give him a slight shake. He cracks open one eye to see she’s no longer looking out at the lakeside and is watching him with a sympathetic gaze.

“To lose love.”

He feels his shoulders stiffen at her words and his jaw clenches for a moment. “I haven’t lost anything,” he manages to say with a steady voice. It’s obvious that she knows he’s lying as she gives him the softest smile he’s ever seen on her.

“Luthor told me the truth,” she tells him, and Bruce flinches. “He couldn’t help it. The Lasso of Hestia does not allow any secret to be left unspoken.”

Bruce pushes her hand away as he sits up. “And what?” he demands, anger and betrayal more prominent than his surprise. “What did you do when he told you?”

Diana purses her lips for a moment before she glances back away out towards the lake. “I gave him the time weapon,” she says, and Bruce’s eyes widen. “I kept him from telling the others the deal that you struck with him. I would not let him expose you like that, not when you try so hard to keep up this facade.” She glances over her shoulder and gives him a small amused smile. “Arthur alone would make your life a nightmare.”

Bruce doesn’t smile back, just clenches his hands into fists. “Why did you not just pull me out?” he asks. “Why did you respect the deal?”

She pauses for a long moment and doesn’t say a word. Bruce wonders if she’ll say anything at all as the time ticks by before her shoulders slump and she reaches down to pull the watch that’s sitting on her wrist off. Bruce frowns as she passes it over to him, unsurprised to see her with such an antique, but he doesn’t quite know what it means.

“His name was Steve Trevor,” she starts as Bruce turns the watch over in his hand. “He was a pilot that crashed near Themyscria during the First World War. He was the one that brought me to the human world.”

“The man in the picture,” Bruce muses aloud, remembering the photo he sent Diana before they became a team. He remembers reading about Steve Trevor, but there wasn’t much information about him available. “He was a spy, wasn’t he?”

Diana nods. “He died trying to save the world,” she continues quietly. “He sacrificed himself for the greater good, and I have never forgotten that.” She looks up at Bruce and her eyes are soft, _sad_. “His last words to me still break my heart.”

Bruce doesn’t want to ask, but he hears himself say the words anyway. “What were they?”

“I wish we had more time,” Diana murmurs, closing her eyes as she speaks. Bruce feels the words like a heavyweight in the room, and he has to look down at his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

Diana sighs and surprises him by reaching out to take hold of one of Bruce’s hands. “That’s why I didn’t pull you out, Bruce,” she explains softly. “I know what it’s like to want more time, to _need_ that little bit more.” He looks up to see she’s smiling again, no matter how small it is. “I couldn’t have it, but there was no reason that you could not.”

“But Luthor has the time weapon now,” Bruce starts to protest. “What if-”

“We’ll get it back,” Diana interrupts firmly, her grip on his hand tightening for a moment. “The time weapon will always be recoverable, Bruce. We can always find it again.” She shakes her. “Although, despite it’s purpose, you never will be able to get that time with Clark back.” Her expression is soft and sad. “Unfortunately, no matter what we do, there will never be enough time.”

“No,” Bruce agrees. “There won’t.”

She nods her head before squeezing his hand again and letting it go. She turns back to look out at the lakeside, quiet and reflective, and after a hesitant moment, Bruce lies back down and closes his eyes.

Diana’s words don’t leave him though. They sit in the back of his mind as he recovers, brighter and louder whenever Clark is around. Bruce thought he would be okay at managing his emotions back here in the future around a Clark that wouldn’t remember, but it’s hard and intoxicating.

As his memories come back, they’re a lot more prevalent than Luthor led him to believe. If the team didn’t know before what Bruce had been doing in the past, they do the moment that Bruce first runs a hand over Clark’s shoulders as they sit at a team meeting, trailing his fingers gently across his shirt. It has them all freezing, Bruce the most, and he refuses to meet anyones eyes as he snatches his hand back and makes his excuses to leave. Diana tries to chase him, to talk it out, but he _can’t_.

He needs to smother these memories like Luthor did to Clark, bury them as deep as he can go. His feelings, he can deal with, as he has done for a long time, but he’s never felt them alongside memories of _being_ with Clark. He can’t afford to slip up like before, no matter how minor said slip up might be. A trailing hand across the shoulders is _still_ wrong, is still a clear sign that he can’t _handle_ this. He can’t make Clark uncomfortable with random displays of affection just as much as he sure as hell can’t let the team know more than what they’ve already been able to guess. 

It’s cowardice and self-preservation, and Bruce doesn’t actually _care_.

Part of him is almost desperate to seek out Luthor to figure out how he messed with Clark’s memories to make them nearly non-existent, but he’s made enough deals with the devil. He needs to just get a grip, build up an immunity, compartmentalise this horrid nightmare. It will be fine, he thinks, he _knows_ it will be fine.

Victor, surprisingly, has a way to help him. He finds Bruce after the first two weeks of recovery and mentions that he has some ideas on assisting Bruce through the memory settling process. He’s created a small machine that he seems very proud of, although Bruce is a little reluctant at first _especially_ when Victor connects small pads to Bruce’s temple that has him thinking it’s something like electrotherapy. The thought has him on edge as he asks through clenched teeth if the machine is anything the same. 

“Of course not. I’m here to help you,” Victor very nearly spits at him, “not try and kill you slowly.”

Even so, the moment that Victor turns on the machine, Bruce winces. Victor is correct though. It’s nothing like electrotherapy, it just feels like someone has got their fingers pressed to either temple and is rocking it slowly between them. 

Victor does explain it, slowly and carefully from Bruce’s still exhausted brain. The pulses emitted from the machine gently encourage his memory core to work just a _little_ faster than it normally would. Victor had started to design it when he’d heard from Luthor how long it was going to take for Bruce to recover from being in the past for the equivalent of two and a half months, and it’s only really because of his aptitude with technology that he’s managed to finish the machine to working condition within a couple of weeks. Bruce is thankful for it, after all the process hasn’t exactly been sunshine and rainbows with his brain trying to find room to fit the new memories in the spaces the old ones already are, and the machine just softly encourages the process. 

One days worth of memory is processed in two hours, with a max of eight hours a day. Victor estimates it’ll take them about nine days to process each memory, not including the ones that Bruce has managed without the machine. It’s a relief to know that, hopefully at the end of those nine days, Bruce will be able to think without feeling nauseous.

After the first session though, they hadn’t anticipated the disorientation that Bruce would experience. After leaving the lab with a throbbing headache, he’d promptly bumped into Clark out in the corridor and without thinking he’d tugged him into a hug. Pushing his head into the space between Clark’s neck and shoulder was enough of a painkiller in itself, and he’d stayed there with Clark’s arms wrapped around him as he’d waited for the pain to dissipate. 

But then of course as the pain disappeared, the fog over his head lifted and he’d realised that this isn’t right. He doesn’t seek Clark out for comfort, not here in the future. He’d been surprised that Clark hadn’t pushed him away, and he’d quickly stepped back and broken their embrace to murmur an apology before taking off down the hall to a waiting Alfred. 

He’d ignored Clark’s calls to come back and he still refuses to think about them. 

Since then, Victor asks him a series of questions before letting him leave the lab. What’s the year, what’s his name, who is the League, what’re their real names, etcetera etcetera. They’re all pretty standard questions and Bruce finds them abhorrent to deal with, but by the end, he knows he’s unlikely to cause another mistake by forgetting where he is. 

So it’s fine. He’s coping. Diana hovers nearby whenever she can, Victor assists him with restoring his memories to a manageable state, he avoids Clark like the absolute plague, and everything is just damn well fine. 

Until it isn’t, of course. 

It’s the day he and Victor are going through the final memories that are tucked away, and Bruce is holding his breath because at this point he knows more than he and Clark being together. He’s seen it, relived it through the most extreme form of deja vu, remembers the stolen moments by the fire in detail, the ghost of Clark’s fingers trailing over his skin, and the _feelings_ now are still just as intoxicating as they were back then. 

It’s like an overload of sheer love for Clark bloody Kent, and no machine is ever going to be able to compartmentalise that. 

Bruce’s eyes are closed as he feels the gentle pulses against his head. They’re a familiar touch now, almost rocking him into a meditative state, and he’s watching Clark sitting and talking beside him in his memories. It’s mixed with the contrasting memory of a large party and drunk women hanging off his arm, but slowly but surely his mind is separating them from one another and storing them away. 

The human brain is an incredible thing, he’ll admit. 

He’s not paying as much attention as he was at the start of this process. He finds that the more he absorbs himself in the memories the harder it is to pull himself back out, even with Victor’s assistance. Victor has recommended he take more of a disinterested spectators view, although that’s harder to do considering Bruce can’t exactly escape his own mind. 

But he’s coping as he watches the fire and the dogs rolling around him intermingled with the memory of another glass of top-shelf scotch and the laugh of a faceless woman, and he’s taking deep breathes as Clark comes through the small cabin door. He’s talking at the same time as some stuffy investor who reminds Bruce of a rather large prune, and then Clark is showing him some books and a woman is running her hand down his chest and...

His eyes snap open.

“Bruce!” Victor cries out when Bruce reaches up and makes to pull the nodes off his head. He won’t do it, he’s not stupid, but it’s enough of a threat for Victor to slam down the machine and dart over to tug them off himself. 

“He remembers,” Bruce gasps, eyes wide as he looks up at a confused Victor. “Clark remembers.”

“Bruce-“ Victor starts to say but Bruce cuts him off as he surges to his feet. 

“The book when I woke up,” he explains in a huge rush. “The book that Clark was reading was the same book from twenty years ago! He remembers! Why else would he be reading that specific book?”

“Coincidence?” Victor offers with a raised eyebrow. Bruce shakes his head, ignoring the small spikes of discomfort as they pinch in his forehead. 

“There are no coincidences,” he murmurs before he pauses, thinks of an old woman with an wooden eagle around her neck and a harsh glare. He nearly laughs. “There are no coincidences,” he repeats with more confidence. He reaches out to shake Victor by the shoulders. “How much do you think the time weapon would’ve affected a metahuman?”

Victor frowns. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I never thought it would matter but...” he trails off before his eye suddenly lights up. “Of course, Clark would have a different regenerative speed to a normal human. Where you’ve taken weeks to recover from having a mess of concurrent memories, his might’ve been recovered within a matter of days and-“

He cuts himself off though and Bruce shakes his shoulders again. “And what?” Bruce demands. 

Victor shakes his head. “It might’ve been possible before Luthor hit him with the barrier protection. His memories he would’ve shared with you are most likely barely accessible if not completely gone.”

Bruce drops his hands from Victors shoulder, frowning as he looks at the ground. No, he thinks, that isn’t right. There are no coincidences. Clark can’t have just randomly chosen to read that book out of all the billions of books in the world, and especially not a _first_ _edition_ like the one from nineteen ninety-nine. Finding one of those would be incredibly rare after over twenty-four years since its first publication. 

He pauses though. If Victor hadn’t thought about Clark being a meta human then maybe...

“What if Luthor forgot Clark was a metahuman too?” Bruce asks, feeling like he’s grasping at straws. “What if he programmed his machine to work on a standard human?”

Victor narrows his eye before he turns around to face a table covered in various machines and pieces. “That’s a huge if, Bruce,” Victor assures as he starts to riffle through the equipment. “If that were the case though then it’s _possible_ that Luthor’s machine would’ve done next to nothing on Clark, but surely if that _was_ the case then we would’ve seen Clark deteriorate within the first few days of your return like you did.”

“But maybe not,” Bruce protests, watching as Victor picks up a small circular machine and begins to fiddle with it. “We don’t know the extent of Clark’s abilities. _Clark_ doesn’t know the extent of his abilities. What if this-“

“Holy shit.”

Bruce pauses as Victor swears, his heart leaping into his throat as Victor taps the machine a few more times before he turns to Bruce with his mouth open and eye wide. 

He doesn’t have to say a word for Bruce to know exactly what that means, and the smile that breaks out over his face hurts his cheeks with its intensity. 

…

Its harder to find Clark than Bruce thought it would be.

He’s nowhere in the manor, which is surprising considering how many rooms there are to hide in. Bruce checks everywhere, even shaking Arthur awake to ask and receiving a hell of a glare alongside the sharp _no_. He gets Barry on side who manages to run the full perimeter of the estate twice within a couple of blinks and doesn’t spot him, and Diana even chips in for the search but comes up empty.

He heads back to the lake house to start running a satellite search, wondering if he’s going to need to call Martha Kent in Smallville to see if Clark’s at home, and he even briefly considers ringing up Lois Lane. That thought alone nearly has him halting his search alone, but he thinks of the book on his bedside table and thinks that Clark wouldn’t have left it there if not for a purpose.

Alfred meets him at the door just as he arrives though, and it’s with a roll of his eyes and a hard-done-by sigh that Alfred informs Bruce _exactly_ where Clark is.

“He’s been down by the lakeside every day since you came back,” Alfred tells him in a slight drone, eyebrows raised high as Bruce tugs off his normal shoes and pushes his feet into a pair of gumboots.

“He has?” he asks, and Alfred snorts hard enough to almost do some damage.

“Every day,” Alfred confirms. “You’d think he’d be bored by now.”

It blooms a pleasant warmth in his chest as Bruce thinks of what he’d told Clark a long time ago, back on a gentle walk with a smiling conversation on the snowy slopes, and he gives Alfred a bright smile as he claps him on the shoulders.

“Thank you,” he says honestly before he turns and hurries down the steps. He just hits the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath his boots, when Alfred calls his name loudly. He glances back to see Alfred at the bottom of the stairs and holding out a familiar-looking beaten up old book.

He turns to take it from Alfred, the old cover feeling hard and worn in his hands, and he runs his fingers over the picture of the old golden compass printed on the front. He remembers the story now, simple and reassuring where it sits in his memories, and he looks up to see Alfred is giving him a soft smile.

“Good luck, Master Bruce,” Alfred wishes quietly as he lets go of the book completely, and Bruce gives him a sharp nod before he turns and starts the muddy trek down to the lakeside.

The lake is huge to walk around, but there are only a few places along the banks that are accessible past the thick shrubs and tall trees. Bruce keeps his grip tight on the book in his hand as he crashes along through the dense growth surrounding the old dirt path made from years of walking. Fresh clover grows alongside it, spilling over to be crushed under Bruce’s gumboots as he trudges along, and he finds the brisk air of spring to be refreshing.

He’s not one to think in such a way, but it’s a poetic moment. He never got to spend the spring with Clark back in the past. He was only just able to catch the flush of Clark’s cheeks in the chilled and sweet wind before the time weapon had pulled him back, and he’s determined to see it again now.

Of all the places for Clark to be, Bruce doesn’t think it’s a coincidence to see him standing at the lakeside, the gentle waves lapping at the toes of Clark’s boots as he wears that damn familiar red plaid coat of his. Bruce wants to step forward, to nose into the sheepskin collar, run his hands under the warmth of the fabric and over Clark’s waist, to just _delight_ in the feeling of Clark all around him.

He doesn’t though, just pauses and looks at Clark, who’s standing in the exact same spot that Bruce use to come with his parents and Alfred. He takes a minute to think of the old woman from the village, the eagle necklace sitting on her chest _sharp_ in his memory, the thought that there are no coincidences heavy in his mind, and he swears he hears the caw of an eagle for just a moment.

Neither move as Bruce stands behind Clark. He wonders who will be first to the break the quiet air, and he’s genuinely relieved when it’s Clark who lets out a loud sigh before he turns to face Bruce with a cautious gaze.

The first thing Bruce notices is the twisted up empty paper bag in Clark’s grip. Bruce can’t help but give a little smile as he looks at it, notices the grape stamp on the side of it in purple ink. It’s from the small fruit stand just out of town, the same place Alfred used to buy the ones for Bruce and his mother. It makes his chest warm and he takes a step forward as he gestures at it.

“You remember,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than he thought it would be. It doesn’t matter though as Clark drops his gaze and cracks out into his own small smile as he smooths out the crinkled paper bag for a moment.

“I do,” he says in response, shyly looking up at Bruce through his eyelashes. “I think about that story almost every day.”

Bruce nods. “Alfred has a photo of my mother and I feeding the ducks-”

“I know,” Clark says, and Bruce looks at him in surprise. “I mean, only, Alfred showed me when I mentioned the story to him.” He flushes red and glances away after meeting Bruce’s eyes. It’s sweet, and Bruce shakes his head.

“You told Alfred?” he asks. Clark nods and starts to twist the paper bag between his hands.

“Everything,” he explains in a word. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t hold it in any longer and Alfred asked and…” He pauses and winces. “I hope you don’t mind?”

Strangely enough, Bruce doesn’t. Besides the fact that it explains why Alfred was already looking for Clark and was nearly throwing him towards the lake with gusto, the thought that Clark shared what they’d had in the past with someone else is endearing and makes Bruce’s heart swell. It’s still such a strange feeling, but Bruce is starting to like it.

Clark gestures at the book tightly gripped in Bruce’s hand, his face openly hopeful. “And you? Do you remember?”

Bruce pauses for a moment, thinking of young Clark’s warm smile and kind eyes, looking at him over top of this very book as he read each word out with care in front of a crackling fireplace. It might be surrounded by other memories, but Bruce doesn’t think he could ever really forget the true _happiness_ he felt in that moment.

“I do,” he repeats, and Clark’s shyness starts to disappear as his shoulders straighten just slightly and he meets Bruce’s eyes. “I remember it all.”

Clark looks hesitant as he continues to crumple the paper bag nervously in his hand. “All of it?” he repeats, sounding unsure. Bruce slowly nods, and he drops his gaze as he holds the book out in front of him.

“You were trying to tell me you remembered, weren’t you?” Bruce asks quietly. “You left this book behind so that I would know. It’s almost the exact same-”

“It is,” Clark cuts him off, and Bruce looks up in surprise to see Clark still looking bashful as he scratches the back of his neck. “The same, I mean,” he clarifies, and Bruce just raises his eyebrows in surprise. Clark takes a hesitant few steps forward until he’s close enough to Bruce to reach out and place a hand over the cover. “It’s a little worse for wear now, the spine is nearly falling apart, but Anjij told me to take it with me when I left the village years ago. It wasn’t until you came back from the past and once I remembered, I knew why.” He smiles at Bruce. “That woman clearly knew something we didn’t.”

Anjij. Bruce pauses as the old woman comes up again, and he shakes his head fondly. Maybe she did know.

“Bruce,” Clark starts again after the silence has lingered for a moment, “I do remember everything.” He pauses as Bruce looks up at him to see Clark worrying his bottom lip with his teeth before he drops his hand off the book and sighs. “Luthor was suppose to repress my memories from this visit to the past as much as he could, but he didn’t take into account that I have a different genetic makeup compared to a usual human. I _chose_ not to correct him or point it out.”

“Why?” Bruce can’t help but ask as he holds the book in both hands with a white-knuckled grip. He’s both terrified and curious of the answer, his nerves frayed and tense as he waits.

Clark glances at him briefly before he drops his gaze. “Truth is,” he says quietly, “I didn’t want to forget.” He rolls his shoulders and Bruce can see that Clark’s ears are slowly starting to redden. “I’ve been in love, Bruce. I know what it’s like to want someone with your entire being before. But with you?” He looks up and gives Bruce a gentle smile before he lets out a small exhale of breath. “With you, it’s something else.”

Bruce isn’t sure what to say as he shuffles his weight on his feet and glances out over the water behind Clark. This is good, he thinks. This is what he _wants_. He wants Clark to still be in love with him, wants to have a life with him, to start where they left.

But there’s something that’s stopping him.

“What if it was a fluke?” he ends up wondering aloud, and Clark frowns at him. “What if it was only because we were with each other _exclusively_ for such a long period of time? What if these feelings are simply born from circumstance instead of-”

“They’re not,” Clark interrupts sternly, stepping even closer as he reaches out and cups both of Bruce’s shoulders with large hands, the paper bag crinkling against Bruce’s jacket. “The moment you came back it felt _right_, Bruce. The moment I could remember all those memories, it was like everything became clear.”

“Clark, you didn’t remember them,” Bruce scolds him as he shakes his head. “You didn’t have them until I went back in time. They were put there _after _I came back.”

“But how do we know?” Clark protests with wide and insistent eyes. “We know nothing about time travel and neither does Luthor. How do we know the memories weren’t always there and it took going back in time for them to be unlocked?” He gives Bruce a small shake. “I don’t know a thing about destiny or fate, but I do know that the minute I could remember us together in Denali, Bruce, it felt like everything fell into place. Like all the intense emotions and feelings I’ve held for you for such a long time just made even more _sense_.”

_That_ has Bruce halting for a moment as he looks at Clark with a slightly open mouth. “You mean you’ve… felt like this before?” he asks haltingly, his words unusually timid. He wouldn’t dare hope that maybe Clark felt this way _before_ Bruce was sent back in time, but…

Clark grins at him so incredibly brightly and warmly. “Since the day I met you,” Clark tells him with a joyous laugh. “Since the moment I accosted you at Luthor’s fundraiser and we argued over Superman and Batman’s reputations.” He shakes his head. “Maybe it wasn’t the most romantic of meet cute’s, but it was enough for me to think you were the most infuriating, stubborn, _amazing_ man I’d ever met.” He surprises Bruce by reaching up and cupping the side of Bruce’s neck. “And every single memory from Denali just made me fall more and more in love with you.” He lets out a little huff. “And I didn’t know that was even possible.”

Bruce can’t breathe past the lump in his throat, and he closes his eyes and focuses on the gentle movement of Clark’s thumb below his ear as he tries desperately to keep himself together. He wants this, as he said before, wants it so bad it _hurts_, but he doesn’t think he honestly believed he would ever get it.

In the end, there’s only really one thing he can do, and he lets go of the book with one hand before he reaches out and wraps it loosely around Clark’s waist, the hardcover corner of the book digging into the small of Clark’s back, and he reaches up with his free hand to cup the back of Clark’s head so he can pull Clark down just that _smallest_ bit to push their lips together.

It feels right, Bruce realises as Clark lets out a small noise before both his hands are cupping Bruce’s neck and tilting his head back. He can feel the scratchiness of the paper bag against his hair, the warmth of Clark’s palms on his skin, the gentleness as their lips caress each other in a sweet and chaste kiss, and Bruce feels like he’s at _home_ as he pulls Clark in closer and closer until a hot wave crashes over him and they’re _burning_ together.

They break away with twin gasps, pressing their foreheads together as Clark’s soft breath mixes with Bruce’s own. Bruce’s hand slides up from Clark’s cheek to tangle in his short hair, and Bruce gives it a gentle tug as Clark lets out a content laugh.

“So,” Clark says quietly, his breath hot against Bruce’s cheek. “Does this mean you love me too?”

Bruce rolls his eyes but can’t stop the smile that blooms on his lips. “Shut up, Clark,” he scolds him, and Clark laughs again. Bruce opens his eyes slowly, unsure of what he’ll see as his heart sits in his throat and his feelings burn bright.

But it’s just Clark’s brilliant blue eyes and stupidly bright smile, and Bruce can _see_ the sheer love and affection in Clark’s gaze as he watches Bruce and Bruce _knows_ it shouldn’t make him feel warm inside like it does, but it _does_, and Bruce gives Clark’s hair another gentle tug before he trails his hand back down to Clark’s cheek as he nods his head.

“Yeah,” he says, voice so soft. “I do.”

Clark’s returning smile is beautifully tender, and Bruce lets out a delighted laugh before he kisses him again.

...

  
_How do we rewrite the stars?_  
_Say you were made to be mine?_  
_Nothing can keep us apart_  
_'Cause you are the one I was meant to find_

...

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> This has been my first ever DCU Big Bang, and I've been so fortunate to do it alongside the amazing [Dazebras](https://dazebras.tumblr.com/). Not only have they created such a beautiful art piece (please reblog it! It's stunning!) but they've also helped me with writing this monster, and for that, I can never thank them enough!
> 
> This fic really came out of a need to write a time travel piece after Avengers Endgame, although hopefully, this makes more sense, and the urge to write some soppy boys falling in love!
> 
> For a quick overview of the different types of time travel, [there's a picture here](http://methodshop.com/wp-content/uploads/3-theories-time-travel.jpg) with a short breakdown. I can't count the number of times I referred to it!
> 
> Inuit Spirit Animals were a small part of this fic. I've been reading a few things about Inuit culture and I really enjoyed what I've read about Spirit Animals. I fancy Bruce's to be a dog. There's a [beautiful website](https://www.legendsofamerica.com/na-totems/3/) that has all the meanings, and it's wonderful!
> 
> Since I live in New Zealand, I was stoked to find out that the Denali has lakes with rock flour in them! It's stunning! We have two beautiful lakes here that have the iridescent look to them because of the rock flower, [Lake Tekapo](https://cache-graphicslib.viator.com/graphicslib/page-images/742x525/790492_Viator_Shutterstock_169643.jpg) and [Lake Pukaki](https://www.rankers.co.nz/system/experience_images/12064/default.jpg?1363891024). Click on the links for some **incredible** pictures!
> 
> And finally, if anyone fancies some brownies after this fic, [here's a pretty neat recipe](https://cafedelites.com/worlds-best-fudgiest-brownies/)!
> 
> Thank you for reading, I couldn't do this without you!


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